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THE 

WORKS ^ 

OF & **' 

MRS. CHAPONE: 

/J 
NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 

CONTAINING 



I. LETTERS ON THE IM- 
PROVEMENT OF th?: 
MIND. 
•II. MISCELLANIES. 



III. CORRESPONDENCE WITH 
MR. RICHARDSON. 

IV. LETTERS TO MISS CAR- 
TER. 

V. FUGITIVE PIECES. 



TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 

AN ACCOUNT OF HER LIFE AND CHARACTER. 

DRAWN UP 

BY HER OWN FAMILY. 

IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
VOL. III. 

NEW-YORK : 

PUBLISHED BY EVERT DUYCKINCK, 

NO. 68 WATER-STREET. 

J. k J. Harper, Printers. 

1818. 



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■ 



LETTERS 



ON THE 



IMPROVEMENT OF THE MIND, 



WORKS OF MRS. CHAPONE. 

LETTER I. 

ON THE FIRST PRINCIPLES OF RELIGION, 



My dearest Niece, 

Though you are so happy as to have parents, 
who are both capable and desirous of giving 
you all proper instruction, yet 1, who love you 
so tenderly, cannot help fondly wishing to con- 
tribute something, if possible, to your improve- 
ment and welfare : and, as I am so far separat- 
ed from you, that it is only by pen and ink I 
can offer you my sentiments, I will hope that 
your attention may be engaged, by seeing on 
paper, from the hand of one of your warmest 
friends, truths of the highest importance, which 
though you may not find new, can never be too 
deeply engraven on your mind. Some of them, 
perhaps, may make no great impression at pre- 
sent, and yet may so far gain a place in your 
memory, as readily to return to your thoughts 
when occasion recalls them. And, if you pay 
me the compliment of preserving my letters, 
you may possibly reperuse them at some future 
period, when concurring circumstances may 
give them additional weight ; and thus they 
may prove more effectual than the same tilings 
spoken in conversation. But, however this 
may prove, I cannot resist the desire of try-: 
ing to be in some degree usefitl to you, on 
your setting out in a life of trial and difficulty ; 
b i; g 



6 WORKS OF 

your success in which must determine your 
fate for ever. 

Hitherto you have " thought as a child, and 
understood as a child ;" but it is time " to put 
away childish things." You are now in your 
fifteenth year, and must soon act for yourself ; 
therefore it is high time to store your mind 
with those principles, which must direct your 
conduct and fix your character. If you desire 
to live in peace and honour, in favour with God 
and man, and to die in the glorious hope of ri- 
sing from the grave to a life of endless happi- 
ness ; if these things appear worthy your am- 
bition, you must set out in earnest in the pur- 
suit of them. Virtue and happiness are not 
attained by chance, nor by a cold and languid 
approbation ; they must be sought with ar- 
dour, attended to with diligence, and every 
assistance must be eagerly embraced that may 
enable you to obtain them. Consider, that 
good and evil are now before you ; that, if 
you do not heartily choose and love the one, 
you must undoubtedly be the wretched victim 
of the other. Your trial is now begun ; you 
must either become one of the glorious chil- 
dren of God, who are to rejoice in his love for 
ever, or a child of destruction — miserable in 
this life, and punished with eternal death here- 
after. Surely, you will be impressed by so 
awful a situation ! you will earnestly pray to 
be directed into that road of life, which leads 
to excellence and happiness ; and, you will be 
thankful to every kind hand that is held out, 
to set you forward in your journey. 



MRS. CHAtOJSE. 7 

The first step must be to awaken your mind 
to a sense of the importance of the task before 
you ; »vhich is no less than to bring your frail 
nature to that degree of christian perfection, 
which is to qualify it for immortality, and, with- 
out which, it is necessarily incapable of happi- 
ness ; for, it is a truth never to be forgotten, 
that God has annexed happiness to virtue, and 
misery to vice, by the unchangeable nature of 
things ; and that a wicked being (while he con- 
tinues such) is in a natural incapacity of enjoy- 
ing happiness, even with the concurrence of 
all those outward circumstances, which in a 
virtuous mind would produce it. 

As there are degrees of virtue and vice, so are 
there of reward and punishment, both here and 
hereafter : but, let not my dearest niece aim 
only at escaping the dreadful doom of the 
wicked ; let your desires take a nobler flight, 
and aspire after those transcendent honours, 
and that brighter crown of glory, which await 
those who have excelled in virtue ; and, let the 
animating thought, that every secret effort to 
gain his favour is noted by your all-seeing 
judge, who will, with infinite goodness, propor- 
tion your reward to your labours, excite every 
faculty of your soul to please and serve him. 
To this end, you must inform your under- 
standing what you ought to believe, and to do. 
You must correct and purify your heart ; cherish 
and improve all its good affections ; and conti- 
nually mortify and subdue those that are evil. 
You must form and govern your temper and 
manners, according to the laws of benevolence 
and justice ; and qualify yourself, by all means 
In your power, for an useful ana agreeable 



$ WORKS OF 

member of society. All this you see is no light 
business, nor can it be performed without a 
sincere and earnest application of the 1 mind, as 
to its great and constant object. When once 
you consider life, and the duties of life, in this 
manner, you will listen eagerly to the voice of 
instruction and admonition, and seize every 
opportunity of improvement ; every useful 
hint will be laid up in your heart, and your chief 
delight will be in those persons, and those 
books, from which you can learn true wis~ 
dom. 

The only sure foundation of human virtue is 
religion, and the foundation and first principle 
of religion is the belief of the one only God, and 
a just sense of his attributes. This you will 
think you have learned long since, and possess 
in common with almost every human creature 
m this enlightened age and nation ; but, believe 
me, it is less common than you imagine, to be- 
lieve in the true God ; that is, to form such a 
notion of the Deity as is agreeable to truth, 
and consistent with those infinite perfections, 
which all profess to ascribe to him. To form 
worthy notions of the supreme Being, as far as 
we are capable, is essential to true religion and 
morality ; for as it is our duty to imitate those 
qualities of the divinity, which are imitable by 
us, so is it necessary we should know what 
they are, and fatal to mistake them. Can those 
who think of God with servile dread and ter- 
ror, as of a gloomy tyrant, armed with almigh- 
ty power to torment and destroy them, be said 
to believe in the true God ? in that God who. 
the scriptures say, is love ? The kindest and 
best of Beings, who made all creatures in boun* 



MRS. CnAPONE. 9 

tiful goodness, that he might communicate to 
them some portion of his own unalterable hap- 
piness ! who condescends to style himself our 
Father! and, who pitieth us, as a father pitieth 
his own children ! Can those who expect to 
please God by cruelty to themselves, or to 
their fellow creatures ; by horrid punishments 
of their own bodies for the sin of their souls ; 
or, by more horrid persecution of others 
for difference of opinion, be called true be- 
lievers ? Have they not set up another God 
in their own minds, who rather resembles the 
worst of beings than the best ? Nor do those act 
on surer principles who think to gain the favour 
of God by senseless enthusiasm and frantic 
raptures, more like the wild excesses of trie 
most depraved human love, than that reasona- 
ble adoration, that holy reverential love, which 
is due to the pure and holy Father of the uni- 
verse. Those likewise, who murmur against 
his providence, and repine under the restraint 
of his commands, cannot firmly believe him 
infinitely wise and good. If we are not dispos- 
ed to trust him for future events, to banish 
fruitless anxiety, and to believe that all things 
"work together for good to those that love him, 
surely we do not really believe in the God of 
mercy and truth. If we wish to avoid all re- 
membrance of him, all communion with him, 
as much as we dare, surely Ave do not believe 
him to be the source of joy and comfort, the 
dispenser of all good. 

How lamentable it is, that so few hearts 
should feel the pleasures of real piety ! that 
prayer and thanksgiving should be performed, 
as they too often are, not with joy, and love, 
and gratitude ; but with cold indifference, mel- 



10 WORKS OP 

ancholy dejection, or secret horror ! It is true, 
we are all such frail and sinful creatures, that 
we justly fear to have offended our gracious 
Father ; hut, let us remember the condition of 
his forgiveness : If you have sinned, " sin no 
more." He is ready to receive you when ever 
you sincerely turn to him ; and he is ready to 
assist you, when you do but desire to obey 
him. Let your devotion, then, be the language 
of filial love and gratitude ; confide to this kind- 
est of fathers every want and every wish of 
your heart ; but submit them all to his will, and 
freely offer him the disposal of yourself, and of 
all your affairs. Thank him for his benefits, 
and. even for his punishments ; convinced that 
these also are benefits, and mercifully designed 
for your good. Implore his direction in all 
difficulties ; his assistance in all trials ; his com- 
fort and support in sickness or affliction ; his 
restraining grace in the time of prosperity and 
joy. Do not persist in desiring what his provi- 
dence denies you ; but be assured it is not good 
for you. Refuse not any thing he allots you, 
but embrace it as the best and properest for you. 
Can you do less to your heavenly Father than 
what your duty to an earthly one requires ? If 
you were to ask permission of your father, to 
do, or to have, any thing you desire, and he 
should refuse it to you, would you obstinately 
persist in setting your heart upon it, notwith- 
standing his prohibition ? would you not rather 
say, My father is wiser than I am ; he loves me, 
and would not deny my request, if it was fit to 
be granted ; I will therefore banish the thought, 
and cheerfully acquiesce in his will ? How much 
rather should this be said of our heavenly Fa- 
ther, whose wisdom cannot be mistaken, and 



MRS. CHAPONE. 1| 

whose bountiful kindness is infinite ! Love him, 
therefore, in the same manner you love your 
earthly parents, but in a much higher degree, 
in the highest your nature is capable of. For- 
get not to dedicate yourself to his service every 
cay ; to implore his forgiveness of your faults, 
and his protection from evil, every night: and 
this not merely in formal words, unaccompan- 
ied by any act of the mind, but " in spirit and 
in truth ;'' in grateful love, and humble adora- 
tion. Nor let these stated periods of worship 
be your only communication with him ; accus- 
tom yourself to think often of him, in ail your 
waking hours ; to contemplate his wisdom and 
power, in the works of his hands ; to acknow- 
ledge his goodness in every, object of use or of 
pleasure ; to delight in giving him praise in your 
iinmost heart, in the midst of every innocent 
gratification ; in the liveliest hour of social en- 
joyment. You cannot conceive, if you have 
not experienced, how much such silent acts of 
gratitude and love will enhance every pleasure ; 
nor what sweet serenity and cheerfulness such 
reflections will diffuse over your mind. On the 
other hand, when you are suffering pain or sor- 
row, when you are confined to an unpleasant 
situation, or engaged in'a painful duty, how will 
it support and animate you, to refer yourself to 
your almighty Father ! to be assured that he 
knows your state and your intentions ; that no 
effort of virtue is lost in his sight, nor the least 
of your actions or sufferings disregarded or for- 
gotten ! that his hand is ever over you, to ward 
off every real evil, which is not the effect of 
3 r our own ill conduct, and to relieve every sitf- 



12 WORKS OF 

fering that is not useful to your future well-be- 
ing! 

You see, my dear, that true devotion is not a 
melancholy sentiment, that depresses the spi- 
rits, and excludes the ideas of pleasure, which 
youth is so fond of: on the contrary, there is 
nothing so friendly to joy, so productive of true 
pleasure, so peculiarly suited to the warmth and 
innocence of a youthful heart. Do not there- 
fore think it too soon to turn your mind to God ; 
but offer him the first-fruits of your understand- 
ing and affections : and be assured, that the 
more you increase in love to him, and delight 
in his laws, the more you will increase in hap- 
piness, in excellence, and honour : that, in pro- 
portion as you improve in true piety, you will 
become dear and amiable to your fellow crea- 
tures ; contented and peaceful in yourself ; and 
qualified to enjoy the best blessings of this life, 
as well as to inherit the glorious promise of im- 
mortality. 

Thus far 1 have spoken of the first principles 
of all religion: namely, belief in God, worthy 
notions of his attributes, and suitable affections 
towards him; which will naturally excite a sin- 
cere desire of obedience. But, before you can 
obey his will, you must know what that will 
is ; you must inquire in what manner he has 
declared it, and where you may find those 
laws, which must be the rule of your actions. 

The great laws of morality are indeed writ- 
ten in our hearts, and may be discovered by 
reason ; but our reason is of slow growth ; very 
unequally dispensed to different persons ; liable 
to error, and confined within very narrow limits 
in all. If, therefore, God has vouchsafed to 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 1& 

grant a particular revelation of his will ; if he 
has been so unspeakably gracious, as to send 
his son into the world to reclaim mankind from 
error and wickedness ; to die for our sins ; and 
to teach us the way to eternal life ; surely it be- 
comes us to receive his precepts with the deep- 
est reverence ; to love and prize them above all 
things ; and to study them constantly, with an 
earnest desire to conform our thoughts, our 
words, and actions to them. 

As you advance in years and understanding, 
I hope you will be able to examine for your- 
self the evidences of the christian religion, and 
be convinced, on rational grounds, of its divine 
authority. At present, such inquiries would 
demand more study, and greater powers of rea- 
soning, than your age admits of. It is your part, 
therefore, till you are capable of understanding 
the proofs, to believe your parents and teachers, 
that the holy scriptures are writings inspired 
by God, containing a true history of facts, in 
which we are deeply concerned ; a true recital 
of the laws given by God to Moses, and of the 
precepts of our b'essed Lord and Saviour, deli- 
vered from his own mouth to his disciples, and 
repeated and enlarged upon in the edifying 
epistles of his Apostles ; who were men chosen 
from among those, who had the advantage of 
conversing with our Lord, to bear witness of 
his miracles and resurrection ; and who, after 
his ascension, were assisted and inspired by the 
Holy Ghost. This sacred volume must be the 
rule of your life. In it you will find all truths 
necessary to be believed ; and plain and easy 
directions for the practice of every duty. Your 
Bible then must be your chief study and de- 
c c 



14 WORKS OF 

light : but, as it contains many various kinds of 
writing ; some parts obscure and difficult of in- 
terpretation, others j)lain and intelligible to the 
meanest capacity ; I would chiefly recommend 
to your frequent perusal such parts of the sa- 
cred writings as are most adapted to your un- 
derstanding, and most necessary for your in- 
struction. Our Saviour's precepts were spoken 
to the common people amongst the Jews, and 
were therefore given in a manner easy to be 
understood, and equally striking and instruc- 
tive to the learned and unlearned : for the most 
ignorant may comprehend them, whilst the 
wisest must be charmed and awed by the beau- 
tiful and majestic simplicity with which they 
are expressed. Of the same kind are the Ten 
Commandments, delivered by God to Moses ; 
which, as they were designed for universal 
laws, are worded in the most concise and sim- 
ple manner, yet with a majesty which com- 
mands our utmost reverence. 

I think you will receive great pleasure, as 
well as improvement, from the historical 
books of the Old Testament ; provided you 
read them as an history, in a regular course, 
and keep the thread of it in your mind, as you 
go on. I know of none, true or fictitious, that ^ 
is equally wonderful, interesting, and affect- 
ing; or that is told in so short and simple a 
manner as this, which is, of all histories, the 
most authentic. 

In my next letter, I will give you some brief 
directions, concerning the method and course 
I wish you to pursue, in reading the holy scrip- 
tures. May you be enabled to make the best 
use of this most precious gift of God ; this su- 



MRS. CHAPOSg. 15 

rred treasury of knowledge ! May you read 
the Bible, not as a task, nor as the dull employ- 
ment of that day only in which you are forbid- 
den more lively entertainments ; but with a 
sincere and ardent desire of instruction ; with 
that love and delight in God's word, which the 
holy Psalmist so pathetically felt, and described, 
and which is the natural consequence of loving 
God and virtue ! Though I speak this of the 
Bible in general, I would not be understood to 
mean, that every part of the volume is equally 
interesting. I have already said, that it con- 
sists of various matter, and various kinds of 
books, which must be read with different views 
and sentiments. The having some general no- 
tion of what you are to expect from each book 
may possibly help you to understand them, and 
heighten your relish of them. I shall treat 
you as if you were perfectly new to the whole ; 
for so I wish you to consider yourself; because 
the time and manner in which children usually 
read the Bible, are very ill calculated to make 
them really acquainted with it ; and too many 
people who have read it thus, without under- 
standing it in their youth, satisfy themselves 
that they know enough of it, ana never after- 
wards study it with attention, when they come 
to a maturer age. 

Adieu, my beloved Niece ! If the feelings of 
your heart, whilst you read my letters, corres- 
pond with those of mine whilst I Avrite them, I 
shall not be without the advantage of your par- 
tial affection, to give weight to my advice ; for be- 
lieve me, my own dear girl, my heart and eyes 
overflow with tenderness, while I tell you, with 



16 WORKS OF 

how warm and earnest prayers for your happi- 
ness here, and hereafter, I subscribe myself, 
Your faithful friend, 

And most affectionate Aunt. 



LETTER II. 

©N THE STUDY OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES. 

I now proceed to give my dear niece some 
short sketches of the matter contained in the 
different books of the Bible, and of the course 
in which they ought to be read. 

The first book, Genesis, contains the most 
grand, and, to us, the most interesting events, 
that ever happened in the universe : the crea- 
tion of the world, and of man : the deplorable 
fall of man, from his first state of excellence 
and bliss, to the distressed condition in which 
we see all his descendants continue : the sen- 
tence of death pronounced on Adam, and on 
all his race ; with the reviving promise of that 
deliverance, which has since been wrought for 
us by our blessed Saviour : the account of the 
early state of the world : of the universal de- 
luge : the division of mankind into different na- 
tions and languages : the story of Abraham, the 
founder of the Jewish people ; whose unsha- 
ken faith and obedience, under the severest 
trial human nature could sustain, obtained 
such favour in the sight of God, that he vouch- 
safed to style him his friend, and promised 
to make of his posterity a great nation ; and that 
in his seed, that is in one of his descendants, all 
the kingdoms of the earth should be blessed ; 



MRS. CHAPO.NE. 17 

this, you will easily see, refers to the Messiah; 
who was to be the blessing and deliverance of 
all nations. It is amazing that the Jews, pos- 
sessing this prophecy among many others, 
should have been so blinded by prejudice, as 
to have expected, from this great personage, 
only a temporal deliverance of their own nation 
from the subjection to which they were reduced 
under the Romans : it is equally amazing, that 
some christians should, even now, confine the 
blessed effects of his appearance upon earth, to 
this or that particular sect or profession, when 
he is so clearly and emphatically described as 
the Saviour of the Avhole world. The story of 
Abraham's proceeding to sacrifice his only son 
at the command of God, is affecting in thehigh- 
est degree, and sets forth a pattern of unlimited 
resignation, that every one ought to imitate, in 
those trials of obedience under temptation, or 
of acquiescence under afflicting dispensations, 
which fall to their lot : of this we may be assu- 
red, that our trials will be always proportioned 
to the powers afforded us : if we have not 
Abraham's strength of mind, neither shall we 
be called upon to lift the bloody knife against 
the bosom of an only child; but, if the almighty 
arm should be lifted up against him, we must 
be ready to resign him, and all we hold dear, 
to the divine will. This action of Abraham 
has been censured by some, who do not attend 
to the distinction between obedience to a spe- 
cial command, and the detestably cruel sacrifi- 
ces of the Heathens, who sometimes voluntarily, 
and without any divine injunctions, offered up 
their own children, under the notion of appeas- 
ing the anger of their gods. An absolute com-. 
c c 2, 



13 WORKS OF 

mand from God himself, as in the case of Abra- 
ham, entirely alters the moral nature of the 
action ; since he, and he only, has a perfect 
right over the lives of his creatures, and may 
appoint whom he will, either angel or man, 
to be his instrument of destruction. That it 
was really the voice of God, which pro- 
nounced the command, and not a delusion, 
might be made certain to Abraham's mind, 
by means we do not comprehend, but which 
we know to be within the power of him who 
made our souls as well as bodies, and who can 
control and direct every faculty of the hu- 
man mind : and we may be assured, that 
if he was pleased to reveal himself so mirac- 
ulously, he would not leave a possibility of 
doubting whether it was a real or an imagi- 
nary revelation : thus the sacrifice of Abraham 
appears to be clear of all superstition, and re- 
mains the noblest instance of religious faith 
and submission that was ever given by a mere 
man : we cannot wonder that the blessings 
bestowed on him for it should have been ex- 
tended to his posterity. This book proceeds 
with the history of Isaac, which becomes very 
interesting to us, from the touching scene I 
have mentioned ; and still more so, if we con- 
sider him as the type of our Saviour : it re- 
counts his marriage with Rebecca ; the birth 
and history of his two sons, Jacob, the father 
of the twelve tribes, and Esau, the father of 
the Edomites or ldumeans ; the exquisitely af- 
fecting story of Joseph and his brethren ; and 
of his transplanting the Israelites into Egypt, 
who there multiplied to a great nation. 

In Exodus, you read of a series of wonders, 
wrought by the Almighty, to rescue the op- 



MRS. CHAPONE. IS* 

pressed Israelites from the cruel tyranny of the 
Egyptians, who, having first received them as 
guests, by degrees reduced them to a state of 
slavery. By the most peculiar mercies and 
exertions in their favour, God prepared his 
chosen people to receive, with reverent and 
obedient hearts, the solemn restitution of those 
primitive laws, which probably he had reveal- 
ed to Adam and his immediate descendants, 
or which, at least, he had made known by the 
dictates of conscience, but which, time, and 
the degeneracy of mankind had much obscured. 
This important revelation was made to them 
in the Wilderness of Sinah : there, assembled 
before the burning mountain, surrounded " with 
blackness, and darkness, and tempest," they 
heard the awful voice of God pronounce the 
eternal law, impressing it on their hearts with 
circumstances of terror, but without those en- 
couragements and those excellent promises, 
Which were afterwards offered to mankind by 
Jesus Christ. Thus were the great laws of 
morality restored to the Jews, and through 
them transmitted to other nations ; and by that 
means a great restraint was opposed to the 
torrent of vice and impiety, which began to 
prevail over the world. 

To those moral precepts, which are of per- 
petual and universal obligation, were superad- 
ded, by the ministration of Moses, many pe- 
culiar institutions, wisely adapted to different 
ends — either, to fix the memory of those past 
deliverances which were figurative of a future 
and far greater salvation ; to place inviolable 
barriers between the Jews and the idolatrous 
nations, by whom they were surrounded ; or,. 



2© WORKS 01* 

to be the civil law, by which the community 
was to be governed. 

To conduct this series of events, and to es- 
tablish these laws with his people, God raised 
up that great prophet Moses, whose faith and 
piety enabled him to undertake and execute 
the most arduous enterprises, and to pursue, 
with unabated zeal, the welfare of his country- 
men ; even in the hour of death, this generous 
ardour still prevailed : his last moments were 
employed in fervent prayers for their prosperi- 
ty, and, in rapturous gratitude, for the glimpse 
vouchsafed him of a Saviour, far greater than 
himself, whom God would one day raise up to 
his people. 

Thus did Moses, by the excellency of his 
faith, obtain a glorious pre-eminence among 
the saints and prophets in heaven ; while, on 
earth, he will be ever revered, as the first of 
those benefactors to mankind, whose labours 
for the public good have endeared their memo- 
ry to all ages. 

The next book is Leviticus, which con- 
tains little besides the laws for the peculiar 
ritual observance of the Jews, and therefore 
aitords no great instruction to us now ; you 
may pass it over entirely : and, for the same 
reason, you may omit the first eigbt chapters 
of Numbers. The rest of Numbers is chiefly 
a continuation of the history, with some ritual 
laws. 

In Deuteronomy, Moses makes a recapitu- 
lation of the foregoing history, with zealous 
exhortations to the people faithfully to wor- 
ship and obey that God, who had worked such 
amazing wonders for them : he promises them 
the noblest temporal blessiags, if they prova 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 21 

obedient, 'and adds the most awful and striking 
denunciations against them, if they rebel, or 
forsake the true God. I have before observed, 
that the sanctions of the Mosaic law were 
temporal rewards and punishments, those of 
the New Testament are eternal: these last, 
as they are so infinitely more forcible than 
the first, were reserved for the last, best gift 
to mankind ; and were revealed by the 
Messiah, in the fullest and clearest manner. 
Moses, in this book, directs the method in 
which the Israelites were to deal with the sev- 
en nations, whom they were appointed to pun- 
ish for their profligacy and idolatry ; and whose 
land they were to possess, when they had dri- 
ven out the old inhabitants. He gives them 
excellent laws, civil as well as religious, which 
were ever after the standing municipal laws of 
that people. This book concludes with Mo- 
ses' song and death. 

The book of Joshua contains the conquests 
of the Israelites over the seven nations, and 
their establishment in the promised land. — 
Their treatment of these conquered nations 
must appear to you very cruel and unjust, if 
you consider it as their own act, unauthorized 
by a positive command : but they had the most 
absolute injunctions, not to spare these corrupt 
people " to make no covenant with them, nor 
show mercy to them, but utterly to destroy 
them." And the reason is given " lest they 
should turn away the Israelites from following 
the Lord, that they might serve other gods."* 
The children of Israel are to be considered as 
instruments in the hand of the Lord, to punish 

* Deut. Chap. ii. 



££ WORtfS OF 

those, whose idolatry and wickedness had de- 
servedly brought destruction on them : this ex- 1 
ample, therefore, cannot be pleaded in behalf 
of cruelty, or bring any imputation on the 
character of the Jews. With regard to other 
Cities, which did not belong to these seven na- 
tions, they were directed to deal with them, 
according to the common law of arms at that 
time. If the city submitted, it became tribu- 
tary, and the people were spared ;'if it resisted, 
the men were to be slain, but the women and 
children saved.* Yet, though the crime of cru- 
elty cannot be justly laid to their charge on this 
occasion, you will observe, in the course of 
their history, many things recorded of them, 
very different from what you would expect 
from the chosen people of God, if you suppo- 
sed them selected on account of their own 
merit : their national character was by no 
means amiable ; and, we are repeatedly told, 
that they were not chosen for their superior 
righteousness ; " for they were a stiffnecked 
people, and provoked the Lord with their re- 
bellions from the day they left Egypt." — 
" You have been rebellious against the Lord," 
says Moses, " from the day that I knew you."f 
And he vehemently exhorts them, not to flat- 
ter themselves that their success was, in any 
degree, owing to their own merits. They were 
appointed to be the scourge of other nations, 
whose crimes rendered them fit objects of di- 
vine chastisement. For the sake of righteous 
Abraham, their founder, and perhaps for many 
other wise reasons, undiscovered to us, they 

*Peut. chap. 22. t Deut. chap, ix-ver. 24.? 



MRS. CHAP03TE. 2S 

were selected from a world overrun with idola- 
try, to preserve upon earth the pure worship 
of the one only God, and to be honoured witn. 
the, birth of the Messiah amongst them. For 
this end, they were precluded, by divine com- 
mand, from mixing with any other people, 
and defended by a great number of pecu- 
liar rites and observances, from falling into 
the corrupt worship practised by their neigh- 
bours, 

The book of Judges, in which you will find 
the affecting stories of Sampson and of Jeph- 
tha, carries on the history from the death of 
Joshua, about two hundred and fifty years ; 
but the facts are not told in the times in which 
they happened, which makes some confusion, 
and it will be necessary to consult the margi- 
nal dates and notes, as well as the index, in or- 
der to get any clear idea of the succession of 
events, during that period. 

The history then proceeds regularly through 
the two books of Samuel, and those of Kings : 
nothing can be more interesting and entertain- 
ing than the reigns of Saul, David, and Solo- 
mon : but, after the death of Solomon, when 
ten tribes revolted from his son Rehoboas*, and 
became a separate kingdom, you will find some 
difficulty in understanding distinctly the his- 
•lories of the two kingdoms of Israel and Judah, 
which are blended together, and, by the like- 
ness of the names, and other particulars, will 
he apt to confound your mind without great 
attention to the different threads thus carried 
on together : the index here will be of great 
use to you. The second book of Kings con- 
cludes with the Babylonish captivity, live 



3^ WORKS OF 

hundred and eighty-eight years before Christ, 
till which time, the kingdom of Judah had 
descended uninterruptedly in the line of Da- 
vid. 

The first book of Chronicles begins with 
a genealogy from Adam, through all the tribes 
of Israel and Judah ; and the remainder is the 
same history, which is contained in the books 
of Kings, with little or no variation, till the sep- 
aration of the ten tribes : from that period, it 
Sroceeds with the history of the kingdom of 
udah alone, and gives therefore a more regu- 
lar and clear account of the affairs of Judah 
than the book of Kings. You may pass over 
the first book of Chronicles, and the nine first 
chapters of the second book ; but by all means 
read the remaining chapters, as they will give 
you more clear and distinct ideas of the history 
of Judah than that you read in the second book: 
of Kings. The second of Chronicles ends like 
the second of Kings, with the Babylonish 
captivity. 

You must pursue the history in the book of 
Ezra, which gives an account of the return 
of some of the Jews, on the edict of Cyrus, 
and of the rebuilding the Lord's temple. 

Nehemiah carries on the history, for about 
twelve years, when he himself was governor 
of Jerusalem, with authority to rebuild the 
walls, &c. 

The story of Esther is prior in time to 
that of Ezra and Nehemiah ; as you will see 
by the marginal dates ; however, as it happen- 
ed during the seventy years captivity, and is a 
kind of episode, it may be read m its own 
place. 



ItfRS. CHAPONE. 2j 

This is the last of the canonical books that is 
properly historical ; and I would therefore ad- 
vise, that you pass over what follows, till you 
have continued the history through the apo- 
cryphal books. 

The history of Job is probably very ancient, 
though that is a point upon which learned men 
have differed : it is dated, however, 1520 years 
before Christ: I believe it is uncertain by whom 
it was written : many parts of it are obscure, 
but it is well worth studying, for the extreme 
beauty of the poetry, and for the noble and 
sublime devotion it contains. The subject of 
the dispute, between Job and his pretended 
friends, seems to be, whether the Providence, 
of God distributes the rewards and punishments 
of this life, in exact proportion to the merit or 
demerit of each individual. His antagonists 
suppose that it does ; and therefore infer from 
Job's uncommon calamities, that, notwithstand- 
ing his apparent righteousness, he was in reality 
a grievous sinner : they aggravate h?5 supposed 
guilt, by the imputation of hypocrisy, and call 
upon him to confess it, and to acknowledge 
the justice of his punishment. Job asserts his 
own innocence and virtue in the most pathetic 
manner, yet does not presume to accuse the 
supreme Being of injustice. Elihu attempts to 
arbitrate the matter, by alleging the impossi- 
bility that so frail and ignorant a creature as 
man should comprehend the ways of the Al- 
mighty, and, therefore, condemns the unj ust and 
cruel inference the three friends had drawn 
from the sufferings of Job. lie also blames 
Job for the presumption of acquitting himself 
of all iniquiu , since the best of men are not 
d d 



26 WORKS OF 

pure in the sight of God, but all have some- 
thing to repent of ; and he advises him to make 
this use of his afflictions. At last, by a bold iig- 
ure of poetry, the supreme Being himself is in- 
troduced, speaking from the whirlwind, and 
silencing them all by the most sublime display 
of his own power, magnificence, and wisdom, 
and of the comparative littleness and ignorance 
of man. This indeed is the only conclusion 
of the argument, which could be drawn, at a 
time when life and immortality were not yet 
brought to light. A future retribution is the 
only satisfactory solution of the difficulty aris- 
ing from the sufferings of good people in this 
life. 

Next follow The Psalms, with which you 
cannot be too conversant. If you have any 
taste, either for poetry or devotion, they will 
be yOur delight, and will afford you a continual 
feast. The Bible translation is far better than 
that used in the Common-prayer Book ; and 
will often give you the sense, when the other is 
obscure. In this, as well as in all other parts 
ofJthe scripture, you must be careful always to 
consult the margin, which gives you the cor- 
rections made since the last translation, and is 
generally preferable to the words of the text. 
I would wish you to select some of the Psalms 
that please you best, and get them by heart ; 
or, at least, make yourself mistress of the senti- 
ments contained in them : Dr. Delany's Life 
of David will show you the occasions on which 
several of them were composed, which add 
much to their beauty and propriety, and by 
com paring them with the events of David's 
life, you will greatly enhance your pleasure in 



I 

MRS. CHAPONE. 27 

them. Never did the spirit of true piety breathe 
more strongly than in these divine songs ; 
which, being added to a rich vein of poetry, 
makes them more captivating to my heart and 
imagination than any thing I ever read. You 
will consider how great disadvantages any po- 
em must sustain from being rendered literally 
into prose, and then imagine how beautiful 
these must be in the original. May you be en- 
abled, by reading them frequently, to transfuse 
into your own breast that holy flame which in- 
spired the writer! To delight in the Lord, and 
in his laws, like the Psalmist — to rejoice in him 
always, and to think " one day in his courts 
better than a thousand !" But, may you escape 
the heart-piercing sorrow of such repentance 
as that of David, by avoiding sin, which hum- 
bled this unhappy king to the dust ; and which 
cost him such bitter anguish, as it is impossible 
to read of without being moved. Not all the 
pleasures of the most prosperous sinner could 
counterbalance the hundredth part of those 
sensations, described in his penitential Psalms ; 
and which must be the portion of every man, 
who has fallen from a religious state into such 
crimes, when once he recovers a sense of reli- 
gion and virtue, and is brought to a real hatred 
of sin : however available such repentance may 
be to the safety and happiness of the soul af- 
ter death, it is a state of such exquisite suffer- 
ing here, that one cannot be enough surprised 
at the folly of those, who indulge in sin, with 
the hope of living to make their peace with 
God by repentance. Happy are they Avho pre- 
serve their innocence unsullied by any great; 
yr wilful crimes, and who have only the com- 



£8 WORKS ©F 

mon failings of humanity to repent of: these 
are sufficiently mortifying to a heart deeply 
smitten with the love of virtue and with the de- 
sire of perfection. There are many very strik- 
ing prophecies of the Messiah, in these divine 
songs ; particularly in Psalm xxii. Such may 
be found scattered up and down almost 
throughout the Old Testament. To bear tes- 
timony to him is the great and ultimate end 
for which the spirit of prophecy was bestowed 
on the sacred writers : but this will appear 
more plainly to you, when you enter on the 
study of prophecy, which you are now much 
too young to undertake. 

The Proverbs and Ecclesiastes are rich 
stores of wisdom ; from which I wish you to 
adopt such maxims as may be of infinite use, 
both to your temporal and eternal interest. 
But, detached sentences are a kind of reading 
not proper to be continued long at a time ; a 
few of them, well chosen and digested, will do 
you much more service than to read half a 
dozen chapters together ; in this respect they 
are directly opposite to the historical books, 
which, if not read in continuation, can hardly 
be understood, or retained to any purpose. 

The Song of Solomon is a fine poem ; but 
its mystical reference to religion lies too deep 
for a common understanding : if you read it 
therefore, it will be rather as matter of curiosi- 
ty than of edification. 

Next follow the Prophecies, which though 
highly deserving the greatest attention and stu- 
dy, I think you had better omit for some years, 
and then read them with a good exposition ; as 



MRS. CHAPONE. 29 

they are much too difficult for you to under- 
stand without assistance. Dr. Newton on the 
Prophecies will help you much, whenever you 
undertake this study; which you should by all 
means do, when your understanding is ripe 
enough ; because one of the main proofs of our 
religion rests on the testimony of the prophe- 
cies ; and they are very frequently quoted, and 
referred to, in the New Testament: besides, 
the sublimity of the language and sentiments, 
through all the disadvantages of antiquity and 
translation, must, in very many passages, strike 
every person of taste ; and the excellent moral 
and religious precepts found in them must be 
useful to all. 

Though I have spoken of these books, in the 
order in which they stand, I repeat that they 
are not to be read in that order ; but that the 
thread of the history is to be pursued, from Ne- 
hemiah, to the first book of the Maccabees, 
in the Apocrypha ; taking care to observe the 
Chronology regularly, by referring to the in- 
dex, which supplies the deficiencies of this his- 
tory, from Josephus^s Antiquities of the J 
The first of Maccabees carries on the story, 
till within 19!) years of our Lord's Circumci- 
sion : the second book is the same narrative, 
written by a different hand, and does not bring 
the history so forward as the first ; so that, e 
may be entirely omitted, unless you have the 
curiosity lo read some particulars of the heroic 
constancy of the Jews, under the tortures in- 
flicted by their heathen conquerors, with a few 
other things not mentioned in the first book. 

You must then connect the history by ih • 
help of the Index, which will give you brief 
d d H 



WORKS OF 



heads of the changes that happened in the state 
of the Jews, from this time, till the birth of 
the Messiah. 

The other books of the Apocrypha, though 
not admitted as of sacred authority, have many 
things well worth your attention ; particularly 
the admirable book called Ecclesiastjcus, 
and tho Book of Wisdom. But, in the course 
of reading which I advise, these must be omit- 
ted till after you have gone through the Gos- 
pels and Acts, that you may not lose the his- 
torical thread. I must reserve, however, what 
1 have to say to you, concerning the New 
Testament, to another letter. 

Adieu, my dear ! 



LETTER III. 

ON THE STUDY OF THE BOLT SCRIPTURES. COS' 

TINUED. 

My Dearest Niece, 
We come now to that part of scripture, 
which is the most important of all, and vvhieh 
you must make your constant study, not only 
till you are thoroughly acquainted with it, but 
all your life long; because, how often soever 
repeated, it is impossible to read the life and 
death of our blessed Saviour, without renew- 
ing and increasing in our hearts that love and 
reverence, and gratitude towards him, which is 
so justly due for all he did, and suffered, for 
us \ Every word that fell from his lips is more 
precious than all the treasures of the earth j 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 51 

for his u are the words of eternal life !" They 
must therefore be laid up in your heart, and 
constantly referred to, on all occasions, as the 
rule and direction of all your actions ; particu- 
larly those very comprehensive moral precepts 
he has graciously left with us, which can never 
fail to direct us aright, if fairly and honestly 
applied : such as " whatsoever ye ivould that 
men should do unto you, even so do unto them." 
There is no occasion, great or small, on which 
you may not safely apply this rule, for the di- 
rection of your conduct : and, whilst your 
heart honestly adheres to it, you can never be 
guilty of any sort of injustice or unkindness. 
The two great commandments, which contain 
the summary of our duty to God and man, 
are no less easily retained, and made a standard 
by which to judge our own hearts. " To love 
the Lord our God, with all our heaiis, with all 
our minds, with all our strength ; and our neigh- 
bour (or fellow creature) as ourselves." " Love 
worketh no ill to his neighbour," therefore, if 
you have true benevolence, you will never do 
any thing injurious to individuals, or to society. 
Now, all crimes whatever, are (in their remoter 
consequences, at least, if not immediately, 
and apparently) injurious to the society in 
which we live. It is impossible to love God, 
without desiring to please him, and, as far as 
we are able, to resemble him ; therefore, the 
love of God must lead to every virtue in the 
highest degree ; and, we may be sure, we do 
not truly love him, if we content ourselves 
with avoiding flagrant sins, and do not strive, 
in good earnest, to reach the greatest degree 



32 WORKS or 

of perfection we are capable of. Thus do 
those few words direct us to the highest Chris- 
tian virtue. Indeed, the whole tenor of the 
gospel is to offer us every help, direction, and 
motive, that can enable us to attain that degree 
of perfection, on which depends our eternal 
good. 

What an example is set before us in our 
blessed Master ! How is his whole life, from 
earliest youth, dedicated to the pursuit of true 
wisdom, and to the practice of the most exalt- 
ed virtue ! When you see him, at hvelve years of 
age in the temple, amongst the doctors, hearing 
them, and asking them questions, on the sub- 
ject of religion, and astonishing them all with 
his understanding and answers ; you will say, 
perhaps," Well might the Son of God, even at 
those years, be far wiser than the aged ; but 
can a mortal child emulate such heavenly wis- 
dom ? Can such a pattern be proposed to my 
imitation ?" Yes, my dear ; remember that he 
has bequeathed to you his heavenly wisdom, as 
far as concerns your own goodt. He has left 
you such declarations of his will, and of the 
consequences of your actions, as you are, even 
now, fully able to understand, if you will but 
attend to them. If then you will imitate his 
zeal for knowledge, if you will delight in gain- 
ing information and improvement; you may 
even now become u wi.se unto salvation ." Un- 
moved by the praise he acquired amongst 
these learned men, you see him meekly return 
to the subjection of a child, under those who 
appeared to be his parents, though he was in 
reality their Lord : you see him return to live 
with them, to work for them, and to be the joy 



MRS. CHAPONE. 3S 

and solace of their lives ; till the time came, 
when he was to enter on that scene of public 
action, for which his heavenly Father had sent 
him from his own right hand to take upon him 
he form of a poor carpenter's son. What a 
esson of humility is this, and of obedience to 
parents ! When, having received the glorious 
testimony from heaven, of his being the be- 
loved Son of the most High, he enters on his 
public ministry, what an example does he give 
us, of the most extensive and constant benevo- 
lence ! how are all his hours spent in doing good 
to the souls and bodies of men ! not the mean- 
est sinner is below his notice : to reclaim and 
save them, he condescends to converse famil- 
iarly with the most corrupt, as well as the most 
abject. All his miracles are wrought to benefit 
mankind ; not one to punish and aiflict them. 
Instead of using the almighty power, which 
accompanied him, to the purpose of exalting 
himself and treading down nis enemies, he 
makes no other use of it than to heal and to 
save. 

When you come to read of his sufferings and 
death, the ignominy and reproach, the sorrow 
of mind, and torment of body which he sub- 
mitted to ; when you consider that it was all for 
our sakes ; " that by his stripes we are healed," 
and by his death we are raised from destruction 
to everlasting life ; what can I say that can add 
any thing to the sensations you must then feel ? 
No power of language can make the scene 
more touching than it appears in the plain and 
simple narrations of the evangelists. The heart 
lhat is unmoved by it can be scarcely human : 
hut, my dear, the emotions of tenderness and 



34 WORKS OF 

compunction, which almost every one feels in 
reading this account, will be of no avail unless 
applied to the true end, unless it inspires you 
with a sincere and warm affection towards 
your blessed Lord ; with a firm resolution to 
obey his commands ; to be his faithful disci- 
ple ; and ever to renounce and abhor those sins, 
which brought mankind under divine condem- 
nation, and from which Ave have been redeem- 
ed, at so dear a rate. Remember that the title of 
Christian, or follower of Christ, implies a more 
than ordinary degree of holiness and goodness. 
As our motives to virtue are stronger than those 
which are afforded to the rest of mankind, our 
guilt will be proportionably greater if we de- 
part from it. 

Our Saviour appears to have had three great 
purposes, in descending from his glory, and 
dwelling amongst men. The first, to teach 
them true virtue, both by his example and 
precepts : the second, to give them the most 
forcible motives to the practice of it, by 
" bringing life and immortality to light :" by 
showing them the certainty of a resurrection 
and judgment, and the absolute necessity of 
obedience to God's laws. The third, to sacri- 
fice himself for us, to obtain by his death the 
remission of our sins upon our repentance and 
reformation, and the power of bestowing on 
his sincere followers the inestimable gift of 
immortal happiness. 

What a tremendous scene of the last day 
does the gospel place before our eyes ! of that 
day when you, and every one of us, shall awake 
from the grave, and behold the Son of God, on 
bis glorious tribunal, attended by millions of 



MRS. CHAPGNE. 3j 

celestial beings, of whose superior excellence 
we can now form no adequate idea : When in 
presence of all mankind, of those holy angels, 
and of the great judge himself, you must give 
an account of your past life, and hear your final 
doom, from which there can be no appeal, and 
which must determine your fate, to all etefriity. 
Then think, if for a moment you can bear the 
thought, what will be the desolation, shame 
and anguish of those wretched souls, who shall 
hear these dreadful words; " Depart fromme, 
ye cursed, into everlasting Jire, prepared/or the 
devil and his angels." Oh ! my beloved child ! 
1 cannot support even the idea of your becoming 
one of those undone, lost creatures ! I trust in 
God's mercy, that you will make a better use of 
that knowledge of his will, which he has 
vouchsafed you, and of those amiable dispo- 
sitions he has given you. Let us therefore turn 
from this horrid, this insupportable view, and 
rather endeavour to imagine, as far as is possi- 
ble, what will be the sensations of your soul, 
if you shall hear our heavenly judge address 
you in these transporting words : " Come, thou 
blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepai - 
ed for you, from the foundation of the world." 
Think what it must be, to become an object of 
tiie esteem and applause, not only of all man- 
kind assembled together, but of all the host of 
heaven, of our blessed Lord himself; nay, of 
his and our almighty Father: to find your frail 
flesh changed in a moment into a glorious ce- 
lestial body, endowed with perfect beauty, 
health, and agility ; to find your soul cleansed 
from all its faults and infirmities; exalted to 
the purest and noblest affections; overflowing 



36 WORKS OF 

with divine love and rapturous gratitude! to 
have your understanding enlightened and refin- 
ed, your heart enlarged and purified, and every 
power, and disposition of mind and body, 
adapted to the highest relish of virtue and hap- 
piness ! Thus accomplished, to be admitted 
into the society of amiable and happy beings, 
all united in the most perfect peace and friend- 
ship, all breathing nothing but love to God, and 
to each other ; with them to dwell in scenes 
more delightful than the richest imagination 
can paint; free from every pain and care, and 
from all possibility of change or satiety : but, 
above all, to enjoy the more immediate pres- 
ence of God himself; to be able to comprehend 
and admire his adorable perfections in a high 
degree, though still far short of their infinity ; 
to be conscious of his love and favour, and to 
rejoice in the light of his countenance ! but 
here all imagination fails : we can form no idea 
of that bliss which may be communicated to us 
by such a near approach to the source of all 
beauty and all good : we must content ourselves 
with believing that it is what mortal eye hath not 
seen, nor ear heard, neither hath it entered into 
the heart of man to conceive. The crown of all 
our joys will be to know that we are secure of 
possessing them for ever. What a transporting 
idea ! 

My dearest child ! can you reflect on all 
these things, and not feel the most earnest 
longings after immortality ? Do not all other 
views and desires seem mean and trifling, when 
compared with this ? And does not your in- 
most heart, resolve that this shall be the chief 
and constant object of its wishes and pursuit, 



MRS. CHAFOXX. 37 

through the whole course of your life ? If you 
are not insensible to that desire of happiness, 
which seems woven into our nature, you cannot 
surely be unmoved by the prospect of such a 
transcendent degree of it ; and that, continued 
to all eternity — perhaps continually increasing. 
You cannot but dread the forfeiture of such an 
inheritance as the most insupportable evil ? 
Remember then — remember the conditions on 
which alone it can be obtained. God will not 
give to vice, to carelessness, or sloth, the prize 
he has proposed to virtue. You have every 
help that can animate your endeavours : you 
have written laws to direct you ; the example 
of Christ and his disciples to encourage you ; 
the most awakening motives to engage you ; 
and, you have besides, the comfortable prom- 
ise of constant assistance from the Holy Spirit, 
if you diligently and sincerely pray for it. O, 
my dear child ! let not all this mercy be lost 
upon you ; but give your attention to this your 
only important concern, and accept, with 
profound gratitude, the inestimable advantages 
that are thus affectionately offered you. 

Though the four gospels are each of them a 
narration of the life, sayings, and death of 
Christ; yet, as they are not exactly alike, but 
some circumstances and sayings, omitted in 
one, are recorded in another, you must make 
yourself perfectly mistress of them all. 

The Acts of the holy apostles, endowed 
with the Holy Ghost, and authorized by their 
divine Master, come next in order to be read. 
Nothing can be more interesting and edifying, 
than the history of their actions ; of the piety, 
zeal, and courage, with which they preached 
f. e 



88 works or 

the glad tidings of salvation ; and of the various 
exertions of the wonderful powers conferred 
on them by the Holy Spirit, for the confirma- 
tion of their mission. 

The character of St. Paul, and his miracu- 
lous conversion, demand "your particular at- 
tention : most of the Apostles were men of 
low birth and education ; but St. Paul was a 
Roman citizen ; that is, he possessed the pri- 
vileges annexed to the freedom of the city of 
Rome, which was considered as an high dis- 
tinction In those countries, that had been con- 
quered by the Romans. He was educated 
amongst the most learned sect of the Jews, 
and by one of their principal doctors. He 
was a man of extraordinary eloquence, as ap- 
pears not only in his writings, but in several 
speeches in his own defence, pronounced before 
governors and courts of justice, when he was 
called to account for the doctrines he taught. 
He seems to have been of an uncommonly 
warm temper, and zealous in whatever religion 
he professed : this zeal, before his conversion, 
showing itself in the most unjustifiable actions, 
by furiously persecuting the innocent Chris- 
tians : but, though his actions were bad, we may 
be sure his intentions were good ; otherwise 
we should not have seen a miracle employed 
to convince him of his mistake, and to bring him 
into the right way. This example may assure us 
of the mercy of God towards mistaken consci- 
ences, and ought to inspire us with the most 
enlarged charity and good will towards those, 
whose erroneous principles mislead their con- 
duct : instead of resentment and hatred against 



MRS. CHAPONE. 33 

their persons, we ought only to feel an active 
wish of assisting them to find the truth, since 
we know not whether, if convinced, they might 
not prove, like St. Paul, chosen vessels to pro- 
mote the honour of , God, and of true religion, 
It is not my intention now to enter with you 
into any of the arguments for the truth of 
Christianity, otherwise it would be impossible 
wholly to pass over that which arises from this 
remarkable conversion, and which has been 
so admirably illustrated by a noble writer,* 
whose tract on this subject is In every body's 
hand. 

Next follow the Epistles, which make a 
very important part of the New Testament ; 
and you cannot be too much employed in 
reading them. They contain the most excel- 
lent precepts and admonitions, and are of par- 
ticular use in explaining more at large several 
doctrines of Christianity, which we could not 
so fully comprehend without them . There are 
indeed in the Epistles of St. Paul many pas- 
sages hard to be understood : such, in particular, 
are the first eleven chapters to the Romans : 
the greater part of his Epistles to the Corin- 
thians and Galatians : and several chapters of 
that to the Hebrews. Instead of perplexing 
yourself with these more obscure passages of 
scripture, 1 would wish you to employ your 
attention chiefly on those that are plain ; and 
to judge of the doctrines taught in the other 
parts, by comparing them with what you rind 
m these- It is through the neglect of this 

s LordLyttelton. 



40 TV ORES OF 

rule, that many have been led to draw the 
most absurd doctrines from the holy scriptures. 
Let me particularly recommend to your care- 
ful perusal the 12th, 13th, 14th, and 1 5th chap- 
ters of the Epistle to the Romans. In the 
14th chapter, St. Paul has in view the differ- 
ence between the Jewish and Gentile (or Hea- 
then) converts at that time ; the former were 
disposed to look with horror on the latter, for 
their impiety in not paying the same regard 
to the distinctions of days and meats, that they 
did ; and the latter, on the contrary, were incli- 
ned to look with contempt on the former, for 
their weakness and superstition. Excellent is 
the advice which the Apostle gives to both 
parties : he exhorts the Jewish converts not to 
judge, and the Gentiles not to despise ; remem- 
bering that the kingdom of heaven is not meat 
and drink, but righteousness, and peace, and 
joy in the Holy Ghost: Endeavour to conform 
yourself to this advice ; to acquire a temper of 
universal candour and benevolence : and learn 
neither to despise nor condemn any persons 
on account of their particular modes of faith 
and worship ; remembering always, that good- 
ness is confined to no party ; that there are wise 
and worthy men among all the sects of Chris- 
tians ; and that, to his own master, every one 
must stand or fall. 

I will enter no farther into the several points 
discussed by St. Paul in his various epistles ; 
most of them too intricate for your under- 
standing; at present, and many of them beyond 
my abilities to state clearly. I will only again 
recommend to you, to read those passages fre- 
quently, which, with so much fervour and en- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 41 

£rgy, excite you to the practice of the most 
exalted piety and benevolence. If the effusions 
of a heart, warmed with the tenderest affection 
for the whole human race ; if precept, warning, 
encouragement, example, urged by an elo- 
quence, which such affection only could in- 
spire, are capable of influencing your mind ; 
you cannot fail to find, in such parts of his 
epistles as are adapted to your understanding, 
the strongest persuasives to every virtue that 
can adorn and improve your nature. 

The Epistle of St. James is entirely practi- 
cal, and exceedingly fine ; you cannot study it 
too much. It seems particularly designed to 
guard Christians against misunderstanding some 
things in St. Paul's writings, which have been 
fatally perverted to the encouragement of a 
dependance on faith alone, without good works. 
But, the more rational commentators will tell 
you, that by the works of the law, which the 
apostle asserts to be incapable of justifying us, 
he means, not the works of moral righteous- 
ness, but the ceremonial works of the Mosaic 
law ; on which the Jews laid the greatest stress, 
as necessary to salvation. But, St. James tells 
us y that " if any man among us seem to be re- 
ligious, and bridleth not his tongue, but de- 
ceiveth his own heart, that man's religion is 
vain," And that, " pure religion, and undefiled 
before God and the father, is this, to visit the 
fatherless and widow in their affliction, and to 
keep himself unspotted from the world." 
Faith in Christ, if it produce not these effects, 
he declares is dead, or of no power. 

The epistles of St. Peter are also full of the 
best instructions and admonitions, concerning 
E e 2 



42 works or 

the relative duties of life, amongst which are set 
forth the duties of women in general, and of 
wives in particular. Some part of his second 
Epistle is prophetical ; warning the church of 
false teachers, and false doctrines, which should 
undermine morality, and disgrace the cause of 
Christianity. 

The first of St. John is written in a highly 
figurative style, which makes it in some parts 
hard to be understood : but the spirit of divine 
love, which it so fervently expresses, renders it 
highly edifying and delightful. That love of 
God and of man, which this beloved apostle 
so pathetically recommends, is in truth the 
essence of religion, as our Saviour himself in- 
forms us. 

The book of Revelations contains a pro- 
phetical account of most of the great events 
relating to the Christian church, which were 
to happen from the time of the writer, St. 
John, to the end of the world. Many learned 
men have taken a great deal of pains to explain 
it ; and they have done this in many instances 
very successfully : but, I think, it is yet too 
soon for you to study this part of scripture : 
some years hence perhaps there may be no ob- 
jection to your attempting it, and taking into 
your hands the best expositions to assist you 
in reading such of the most difficult parts of 
the New Testament, as you cannot noAv be 
supposed to understand. May fyeaven direct 
you in studying this sacred volunle, and render 
it the means of making you wifce unto salva- 
tion ! May you love and reverence, as it de- 
serves, this blessed and invaluable book, which 
contains the best rule of life, the clearest de- 
claration of the will and laws of the Deity, 



MRS. CHArONJE. 4S 

the reviving assurance of favour to true peni- 
tents, and the unspeakably joyful tidings of eter- 
nal life and happiness to all the truly virtuous, 
through Jesus Christ, the Saviour and Deliver- 
er of the world. Adieu. 



LETTER IV. 

ON THE REGULATION OF THE HEAFT AND AFFEC- 
TIONS. 

You will have read the New Testament to 
very little purpose, my dearest Niece, if you 
do not perceive the great end and intention of 
all its precepts to be the improvement and reg- 
ulation of the heart : not the outward actions 
alone, butthe inward affections, which give birth 
to them, are the subjects of those precepts ; as 
appears in our Saviour's explanation* of the 
commandments delivered to Moses; and in a 
thousand other passages of the gospels, which 
it is needless to recite. There are no vir- 
tues more insisted on, as necessary to our fu- 
ture happiness, than humility, and sincerity, or 
uprightness of heart ; yet, none more difficult 
and rare. Pride and vanity, the vices opposite 
to humility, are the sources of almost all the 
worst faults, both of men and women. The 
latter are particularly accused, and not without 
reason, of vanity, the vice of little minds, 
chiefly conversant with trifling subjects. Pride 
and vanity have been supposed to differ so es- 
sentially, as hardly ever to be found in the 

Mattfa. v. 



44 works or 

same person. " Too proud to be vain," is no 
uncommon expression, by which, I suppose, is 
meant, too proud to be over anxious for the 
admiration of others : but this seems to be 
iounded on mistake. Pride is, I think, an high, 
opinion of one's self, and an affected contempt 
ot others : 1 say affected, for that it is not a real 
contempt is evident from this, that the lowest 
object of it is important enough to torture the 
proud man's heart, only by refusing him the 
homage and admiration he requires. Thus 
Haman could relish none of the advantages on 
which he valued himself, whilst thatMordecai 
whom he pretended to despise, sat still in the 
king s gate, and would not bow to him as he 
passed. But, as the proud man's contempt of 
others is only assumed with a view to awe them 
into reverence by his pretended superiority, so 
it does not preclude an extreme inward anxier 
ty about their opinions, and a slavish depen- 
dence on them for all his gratifications : pride, 
though a distinct passion, is seldom unaccom- 
panied by vanity, which is an extravagant de- 
sire ot admiration. Indeed, I never saw an 
insolent person, in whom a discerning eje might 
not discover a very large share of vanity, and 
of envy, its usual companion. One may 
nevertheless see many vain persons who are 
not proud : though they desire to be admired, 
they do not always admire themselves ; but as 
timid minds are apt to despair of those things 
they earnestly wish for, so you will often see the 
woman who is most anxious to be thought 
hav.dsome, most inclined to be dissatisfied with 
her looks, and to think all the assistance of art 
loo little to attain the end desired. To this 
cause, I believe, we may generally attribute ail 



MRS. CHAPONE. 4J>- 

fectation ; which seems to imply a mean opin- 
ion of one's own real form, or character, while 
we strive against nature to alter ourselves by 
ridiculous contortions of body, or by feigned 
sentiments and unnatural manners. There is 
no art so mean, which this mean passion will 
not descend to for its gratification ; no creature 
so insignificant, whose incense it will not gladly 
receive. Far from despising others, the vain 
man will court them with the most assiduous 
adulation ; in hopes, by feeding their vanity, to 
induce them to supply the craving wants of his 
own. He will put on the guise of benevolence,, 
tenderness, and friendship, where he feels not 
the least degree of kindness, in order to pre- 
vail on good nature and gratitude, to like and 
to commend him : but if, in any particular case, 
he fancies, that airs of insolence and contempt 
may succeed better, he makes no scruple to 
assume them ; though so awkwardly, that he 
still appears to depend on the breath of the 
person, lie would be thought to despise. Weak 
and timid natures seldom venture to try this 
last method ; and, when they do, it is without 
the assurance necessary to carry it on with suc- 
cess ; but, a bold and confident mind will oftener 
endeavour to command and extort admiration 
than to court it. As women are more fearful 
than men, perhaps this may be one reason why 
they are more vain than proud ; whilst the 
other sex are oftener proud than vain. It is, 
I suppose, from some opinion of a certain 
greatness of mind accompanying the onp vice 
rather than the other, that many will readily 
confess their pride, nay and even be proud of 
their pride, whilst every creature is ashamed of 



46 WORKS OF 

being convicted of vanity. You see, however, 
that the end of both is the same, though pursu- 
ed by different means ; or, if it differs, it is in the. 
importance of the subject. Whilst men are 
proud of power, of wealth, dignity, learning, 
or abilities, young women are usually ambitious 
of nothing more than to be admired for their 
persons, their dress, or their most trivial accom- 
plishments. The homage of men is their 
grand object ; but, they only desire them to 
be in love with their persons, careless how des- 
picable their minds appear, even to these their 
pretended adorers. I have known a woman so 
vain as to boast of the most disgraceful ad- 
dresses ; being contented to be thought mean- 
ly of, in points the most interesting to her 
honour, for the sake of having it known, that 
her person was attractive enough to make a 
man transgress the bounds of respect due to 
her character, which was not a vicious one, if 
you except this intemperate vanity. But, this 
passion too often leads to the most ruinous ac- 
tions, always corrupts the heart, and, when in- 
dulged, renders it, perhaps, as displeasingin the 
sight of the Almighty, as those faults which 
find least mercy from the world ; yet alas ! it 
is a passion so prevailing, I had almost said 
universal, in our sex,thatit requires all the efforts 
of reason, and all the assistance of grace, total- 
ly to subdue it. Religion is indeed the only 
effectual remedy for this evil. If our hearts 
are not dedicated to God, they will in some 
way or other be dedicated to the world, both in 
youth and age. If our actions are not con- 
stantly referred to him, if his approbation and 
favour are not our principal object, wc shall 



MRS. CHAPONE. 47 

certainly take up with the applause of men, and 
make that the ruling motive of our conduct 
How melancholy is it to see this phantom so 
eagerly followed through life ! whilst all that is 
truly valuable to us is looked upon with indif- 
ference ; or, at best, made subordinate to this 
darling pursuit ! 

Equally vain and absurd is every scheme of 
life that is not subservient to, and does not ter- 
minate in that great end of our being ; the at- 
tainment of real excellence, and of the favour 
of God. Whenever this becomes sincerely 
our object, then will pride and vanity, envy, 
ambition, covetousness, and every evil passion, 
lose their power over us; and we shall, in the 
language of scripture, " Walk humbly with 
our God." We shall then cease to repine un- 
der our natural or accidental disadvantages, 
and feel dissatisfied only with our moral de- 
fects ; we shall love and respect all our fellow- 
creatures, as the children of the same dear pa- 
rent, and particularly those, who seek to do 
his will : all our delight will be " in the saints 
that are in the earth, and in such as excel in 
virtue." We shall wish to cultivate good- will, 
and to promote innocent enjoyment wherever 
we are : we shall strive to please, not from 
vanity, but from benevolence. Instead of con- 
templating our own fancied perfections, or 
even real superiority, with self-complacence, 
religion will teach us to " look into ourselves 
and fear :" the best of us, God knows, have 
enough to fear, if we honestly search into all 
tbe dark reeesses of the heart, and bring out 
every thought and intention fairly to the light, 



48 WORKS OF 

to be tried by the precepts of our pure and holy 
religion. 

It is with the rules of the gospel we must 
compare ourselves, and not with the world 
around us ; for we know that " the many are 
wicked ;" and that we must not be " conform- 
ed to the world." 

How necessary it is, frequently thus to en- 
ter into ourselves, and search out our spirit, 
will appear, if we consider, how much the hu- 
man heart is prone to insincerity, and how of- 
ten, from being first led by vanity into attempts 
to impose upon others, we come at last to im- 
pose on ourselves. 

There is nothing more common than to see 
people fall into the most ridiculous mistakes, 
with regard to their own characters ; but I can 
by no means allow such mistakes to be una- 
voidable, and therefore innocent : they arose 
from voluntary insincerity, and are continued 
for want of that strict honesty towards our- 
selves and others, which the scripture calls 
" singleness of heart ;" and which m modern 
language is termed simplicity; the most en- 
chanting of all qualities, esteemed and beloved 
in proportion to its rareness. 

He, who " requires truth in the inward parts," 
will not excuse our self-deception ; for lie has 
commanded us to examine ourselves diligent- 
ly, and has given us such rules as can never 
mislead us, if we desire the truth, and are wil- 
ling to see our faults, in order to correct them. 
But this is the point in which we are defective ; 
we are desirous to gain our own approbation, 
as well as that of others, at a cheaper rate than 
that of being really what we ought to be ; and 






MRS. CHAPONE. 49 

we take pains to persuade ourselves that we 
are that which we indolently admire and ap- 
prove. 

There is nothing in which this self-deception 
is more notorious than in what regards senti- 
ment and feeling. Let a vain young woman he 
told that tenderness and softness is the peculiar 
charm of the sex, that even their weakness is 
lovely, and their fears becoming : and you will 
presently observe her grow so tender as to be 
ready to weep for a fly ; so fearful, that she 
starts at a feather ; and, so weak-hearted, that 
the smallest accident quite overpowers her. 
Her fondness and affection become fulsome and 
ridiculous ; her compassion grows contempti- 
ble weakness; and her apprehensiveness the 
most abject cowardice : for, when once she 
quits the direction of nature, she knows not 
where to stop, and continually exposes herself 
by the most absurd extremes. 

Nothing so effectually defeats its own ends 
as this kind of affectation : for though warm 
affections and tender feelings are beyond mea- 
sure amiable and charming, when perfectly na- 
tural, and kept under the due control of rea- 
son and principle, yet nothing is so trul} dis- 
gusting as the affectation of them, or even the 
unbridled indulgence of such as are real. 

Remember, my dear, that our feelings were 
not given us for our ornament, but to spur us 
on to right actions. Compassion, for instance, 
was not impressed upon the human heart, only 
to adorn the fair face with tears, and to give 
an agreeable languor to the eyes ; it was de- 
signed to excite our utmost endeavours to re- 
lieve the sufferer. Yet, how often have I heard 

Ff 



"fO WORKS OF 

that sol fish weakness, which flies from the sight 
of distress, dignified with the name of tender- 
ness ! "My friend is, I hear, in the deepest afflic- 
tion and misery ; I have not seen her, for in- 
deed I cannot bear such scenes, they affect me 
too much ; those who have less sensibility are 
fitter for this world ; but, for my part, I own, 
1 am not able to support such things. I shall 
not attempt to visit her, till 1 hear she has re- 
covered her spirits." This have 1 heard said, 
with an air of complacence ; and the poor self- 
ish creature has persuaded herself that she 
had finer feelings than those generous friends, 
who were sitting patiently m the house of 
mourning, watching, in silence, the proper mo- 
ment to pour in the balm of comfort ; who 
suppressed their own sensations, and only at- 
tended to those of the afflicted person ; and 
whose tears flowed in secret, whilst their 
eyes and voice were taught to enliven the 
sinking heart with the appearance of cheer- 
fulness. 

That sort of tenderness which makes us 
useless may indeed be pitied and excused, if 
owing to natural imbecility ; but, if it pretends 
to loveliness and excellence, it becomes truly 
contemptible. 

The same decree of active courage is not 
to be expected in woman as in man ; and, not 
belonging to her nature, it is not agreeable in 
her : but, passive courage, patience, and forti- 
tude under sufferings, presence of mind, and 
calm resignation in danger, are surely desira- 
ble in every rational creature; especially in 
one professing to believe in an over-ruling 
providence, in which we may at all times qui- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 51 

etly confide, and which we may safely trust 
with every event that does not depend upon 
our own will. Whenever you find yourself 
deficient in these virtues, let it be a subject of 
shame, and humiliation, not of vanity and self- 
complacence : do not fancy yourself more ami- 
able for that which really makes you despica- 
ble ; but, content yourself with the faults and 
weaknesses that belong to you, without put- 
ting on more by way of ornament. With re- 
gard to tenderness, remember that compassion 
is best shewn by an ardour to relieve, and af- 
fection by assiduity to promote the good and 
happiness of the persons you love : that tears 
are unamiable, instead of being ornamental, 
when voluntarily indulged ; and can never be 
attractive but when they flow irresistibly, and 
avoid observation as much as possible : the 
same may be said of every other mark of pas- 
sion. It attracts our sympathy, if involuntary 
and not designed for our notice. It offends, if 
we see that it is purposely indulged and obtru- 
ded on our observation. 

Another point, on which the heart is apt to 
deceive itself, is generosity: we cannot bear 
to suspect ourselves of base and ungenerous 
feelings, therefore we let them work without 
attending to them, or we endeavour to find out 
some better motive for those actions, which 
really flow from envy and malignity. Before 
you flatter yourself that you are a generous 
benevolent person, take care to examine, whe- 
ther you are really glad of every advantage 
and excellence, which your friends and com- 
panions possess, though they are such as you 



&J WORKS OF 

are yourself deficient in. If your sister 
or friend makes a greater proficiency than 
yourself in any accomplishment, which you 
are in pursuit of, do you never wish to stop 
her progress, instead of trying to hasten 
your own ? 

The boundaries between virtuous emulation 
and vicious envy are very nice, and may be ea- 
sily mistaken. The first will awaken your at- 
tention to your own defects and excite your 
endeavours to improve ; the last will make 
you repine at the improvements of others, and 
wish to rob them of the praise they have de- 
served. Do you sincerely rejoice when your 
sister is enjoying pleasure or commenda- 
tion, though you are at the same time in disa- 
greeable or mortifying circumstances ? Do you 
delight to see her approved and beloved, even 
by those who do not pay you equal attention ? 
Are you afflicted and humbled, when she is 
found to be in fault, though you yourself are 
remarkably clear from the same offence? If 
your heart assures you of the affirmative to 
these questions, then may you think yourself a 
kind sister, and a generous friend : for, you 
must observe, my dear, that scarcely any crea- 
ture is so depraved as not to be capable of kind 
affections in some circumstances. We are all 
naturally benevolent, when no selfish interest 
interferes, and where no advantage is to be given 
up : we can all pity distress, when it lies com- 
plaining at our feet, and confesses our superi- 
ority and happier situation ; but I have seen 
the sufferer himself become the object of en- 
vy and ill-will, as soon as his fortitude and 
greatness of mind have begun to attract 



MRS. CHAPONL. 53 

admiration, and to make the envious person feel 
the superiority of virtue above good fortune. 

To take sincere pleasure in the blessings and 
excellences of others is a much surer mark of 
benevolence than to pity their calamities : and, 
you must always acknowledge yourself ungen- 
erous and selfish, whenever you are less ready 
to " rejoice with them that do rejoice," than 
to " weep with them that weep." If ever 
your commendations of others are forced from 
you, by the fear of betraying your envy ; or ft* 
ev you feel a secret desire to mention some- 
thing that may abate the admiration given them, 
do not try to conceal the base disposition from 
yourself, since that is not the way to cure. it. 

Human nature isever liable to corruption, and 
has in it the seeds of every vice, as well as of 
every virtue ; and the first will be continually 
shooting forth and growing up, if not carefully 
watched and rooted out as fast as they appear. 
It is the business of religion to purify and ex- 
alt us, from a state of imperfection and infirm- 
ity, to that which is necessary and essential to 
happiness. Envy would make us miserable 
in heaven itself, could it be admitted there ; for 
we must there see beings far more excellent, 
ai:d consequently more happy than ourselves ; 
and, till we can rejoice m seeing virtue re- 
warded in proportion to its degree, we can 
never hope to be among the number of th*- 
blessed. 

Watch, then, my dear child, and observe evexl 
evil propensity ol your heart, that you may in 
tii rect it, with the assistance of that grace, 

which alone can conquer the evils of our nature, 

r fa 



54 WORKS OF 

and which you must constantly and earnestly 
implore. 

1 must add, that even those vices which you 
would most blush to own, and which most ef- 
fectually defile and villify the female heart, may 
by degrees be introduced into yours ; to the 
ruin of that virtue, without which, misery and 
shame must be your portion ; unless the aven- 
ues of the heart are guarded by a sincere ab- 
horrence of every thing that approaches to- 
wards evil. Would you be of the number of 
those blessed, " who are pure in heart," you 
must hate and avoid every thing, both in books 
and in conversation, that conveys impure ideas, 
however neatly clothed in decent language, 
or recommended to your taste by pretended re- 
finements and tender sentiments ; by elegance 
of style, or force of wit and genius. 

I must not now begin to give you my thoughts 
on the regulation of the affections, as that is a 
subject of too much consequence to be soon 
dismissed. I shall dedicate to it my next let- 
ter : in the mean time, believe me, 

Your ever affectionate. 



LETTER V. 

ON THE REGULATION OF THE HEART AND AFFEC- 
TIONS. CONTINUED. 

The attachments of the heart, on which al- 
most all the happiness or misery of life de- 
pends, are most interesting objects of our con- 
sideration. I shall give my dear niece the ob- 



MRS. CHAPON.E. 65' 

serrations which experience has enabled me to 
draw from real life, and not from what others 
have said or written, however great their au- 
i hority. 

The first attachment of young hearts is friend- 
ship — the noblest and happiest of affections, 
when real and built on a solid foundation ; but 
oftener pernicious than useful to very young 
people, because the connexion itself is ill un- 
derstood, and the subjects of it frequently ill 
chosen. Their first error is that of supposing 
equality of age, and exact similarity of disposi- 
tion, indispensably requisite in friends ; where- 
as, these are circumstances which in great 
measure disqualify them for assisting each 
other in moral improvements, or supplying 
each other's defects ; they expose them to the 
same dangers, and incline them to encourage 
rather than correct each other's failings. 

The grand cement of this kind of friendship 
is telling secrets, which they call confidence; 
and I verily believe that the desire of having 
secrets to tell, has often helped to draw silly 
^irls into very unhappy adventures. If they 
have no lover or amour to talk of, the too fre- 
quent subject of their confidence is betraying 
the secrets of their families ; or conjuring up 
fancied hardships to complain of against their 
parents or relations: this odious cabal they 
call friendship, and fancy themselves dignified 
by the profession ; but nothing is more different 
from the reality, as is seen by observing how 
generally those early friendships drop off, as 
the parties advance in years and understanding 

Do not you, my dear, be too ready to pre 
fe«8 a friendship with any of your young com 



&& WORKS OF 

panions. Love them, and be always ready to 
serve and oblige them, and to promote all their 
innocent gratifications: but be very careful 
how you enter into confidences Avith girls of 
your own age. Rather choose some person 
of riper years and judgment, whose good- 
nature and worthy principles may assure you 
of her readiness to do you service, and of 
her candour and condescension towards you. 
I do not expect that youth should delight to 
associate with age, or should lay open its feel- 
ings and inclinations to such as nave almost 
Jtorgot what they were, or how to make proper 
allowance for them ; but if you are fortunate 
enough to meet with a young woman eight or 
ten years older than yourself, of good sense 
and good principles, to whom you can make 
yourself agreeable, it may be one of the happi- 
est circumstances of your life. She will be 
able to advise and to improve ) r ou ; and, your 
desire of this assistance will recommend you 
to her taste, as much as her superior abilities 
will recommend her to you. Such a connex- 
ion will afford you more pleasure, as well as 
more profit, than you can expect from a girl 
like yourself, equally unprovided with know- 
ledge, prudence, or any of those qualifications, 
which are necessary to make society delightful. 
With a friend, such as I have described, of 
iwenty-three or tw r enty-four years of age, you 
can hardly pass an hour without finding your- 
self brought forwarder in some useful know- 
ledge ; without learning something of the 
world, or of your own nature, some rule of 
behaviour, or some necessary caution in the 
conduct of life : for, even in the gayest conver- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 57 

sations, such useful hints may often be gathered 
from those, whose knowledge and experience 
are much beyond our own. Whenever you 
find yourself in real want of advice, or seek 
the relief of unburdening your heart, such a 
friend will be able to judge of the feelings you 
describe, or of the circumstances you are in : 
perhaps from her own experience ; or at least, 
from the knowledge she will have gained of 
human nature ; she will be able to point out 
your dangers, and to guide you in the right 

}mth ; or, if she finds herself incapable, she will 
lave the prudence to direct you to some abler 
adviser. The age I have mentioned will not 
prevent her joining in your pleasures, nor will 
it make her a dull or grave companion ; on the 
contrary, she will have more materials for 
entertaining conversation, and her liveliness 
will show itself more agreeably than in one of 
your own age. Yours therefore will be the 
advantage in such a connexion ; yet, do not 
despair of being admitted into it, if you have 
an amiable and docile disposition. Ingenuous 
youth has many charms for a benevolent 
mind ; and, as nothing is more endearing than 
the exercise of benevolence, the hope of beinjj 
useful and beneficial to you will make her fond 
of your company. 

I have known some of the sweetest and 
most delightful connexions between persons of 
different ages, in which the elder has received 
the highest gratification from the affection and 
docility of the younger ; whilst the latter has 
gained the noblest advantages from the conver- 
sation and counsels of her wiser friend. Norhas 
the attachment been without use as well as pleas^ 



58 WORKS OF 

ure to the elder party. She has found that 
there is no better way of improving one's own 
attainments than by imparting them to another ; 
and the desire of doing this in the most accep- 
table way has added a sweetness and gentleness 
to her manner, and taught her the arts of in- 
sinuating instruction, and of winning the heart, 
whilst she convinces the understanding. 

I hope, my dear, you in your turn will be 
this useful and engaging friend to your younger 
companions, particularly to your sister and 
brothers, who ought ever, unless they should 
prove unworthy, to be your nearest and dear- 
est friends, whose interest and welfare you 
are bound to desire as much as your own. If 
3 r ou are wanting here, do not fancy yourself 
qualified for friendship with others, but be 
assured, your heart is too narrow and selfish 
for so generous an affection. 

Remember that the end of true friendship is 
the good of its object, and the cultivation of 
virtue, in two hearts emulous of each other, 
and desirous to perpetuate their society be- 
yond the grave. Nothing can be more con- 
trary to this end than that mutual intercourse 
of flattery, which some call friendship. A real 
friend will venture to displease me, rather than 
indulge my faulty inclinations, or increase my 
natural frailties ; she will endeavour to make 
me acquainted with myself, and will put me 
upon guarding the weak parts of my character. 

Friendship, in the highest sense of the word, 
can only subsist between persons of strict in- 
1 egrity, and true generosity. Before you fancy 
yourself possessed of such a treasure, you 
should examine the value of your own heartj 



SIRS. CHAPOISE. 59 

and see how well it is qualified for so sacred a 
Connexion : and then, a harder task remains, 
to find out whether the object of your affection 
is also endued with the same virtuous disposi- 
tion. Youth and inexperience are ill able to 
penetrate into characters : the least appearance 
of good attracts their admiration, and they im- 
mediately suppose they have found the object 
they pursued. 

ft is a melancholy consideration that the 
judgment can only be formed by experience, 
which generally comes too late for our own 
use, and is seldom accepted for that of others. 
1 fear it is in vain for me to tell you what dan- 
gerous mistakes I made in the early choice of 
friends ; how incapable I then was of finding 
out such as were fit for me, and how little I 
was acquainted with the true nature of friend- 
ship, when I thought myself most fervently 
engaged in it ! I am sensible all this will hardly 
persuade you to choose by the eyes of others, 
or even to suspect that your own may be de- 
ceived. Yet, ii you should give any weight to 
my observations, it may not be quite useless to 
mention to you some of the essential requisites 
in a friend ; and to exhort you never to choose 
one in whom they are wanting. 

The first of these is a deep and sincere re- 
gard for religion. It' your friend draws her 
principles from the same source with yourself, 
if the gospel precepts are the rule of her life, 
as well as of yours, you will always know 
what to expect from her, and have one com- 
mon standard of right and wrong to refer to, 
by which to regulate all material uoints of con- 
duct. The woman who thinks ligntly of sacred 



60 WORKS OF 

things, or who is ever heard to speak of them 
with levity or indifference, cannot reasonably be 
expected to pay a more serious regard to the 
laws of friendship, or to be uniformly punctual 
in the performance of any of the duties of 
society : take no such person to your bosom, 
however recommended by good humour, wit, 
or any other qualification ; nor let gaiety or 
thoughtlessness be deemed an excuse for of- 
fending in this important point: a person,, 
habituated to the love and reverence of religion 
and virtue, no more, wants the guard of serious 
consideration to restrain her from speaking 
disrespectfully of them than to prevent her 
speaking ill of her dearest friend. In the live- 
liest hour of mirth, the innocent heart can dic- 
tate nothing but what is innocent : it will im- 
mediately take alarm at the apprehension of 
doing wrong, and stop at once in the full ca- 
reer of youthful sprightliness, if reminded of 
the neglect or transgression of any duty. — 
Watch for these symptoms of innocence and 
goodness, and admit no one to your entire affec- 
tion, who would ever persuade you to make light 
of any sort of offence, or who can treat, with 
levity or contempt, any person or thing that 
bears a relation to religion. 

A due regard to reputation is the next indis- 
pensable qualification. " Have regard to thy 
name," saith the wise son of Sirach, " for that 
will continue with tnee above a thousand great 
treasures of gold." The young person who is 
careless of blame, and indifferent to the esteem 
of the wise and prudent part of the world, is 
not only a most dangerous companion, but 
gives a certain proof of the want of rectitude 



SIRS. CHAPON£. 6fc 

fii her own mind. Discretion is the guardian 
of all the virtues ; and, when she forsakes 
them, they cannot long resist the attacks of an 
enemy. There is a profligacy of spirit in de- 
fying the rules of decorum, and despising cen- 
sure, which seldom ends otherwise than in ex- 
treme corruption and utter ruin. Modesty 
and prudence are qualities that early display 
themselves and are easily discerned: AVhere 
these do not appear, you should avoid, not on- 
ly friendship, but every step towards intimacy, 
lest your own character should suffer with that 
of your companion ; but, where they shine 
forth in any eminent degree, you may safely g* 
cultivate an acquaintance, in the reasonable 
hope of finding the solid fruits of virtue be- 
neath such sweet and promising' blossoms: 
should you be disappointed, you will at least 
have run no risque in the search after them, and 
may cherish as a creditable acquaintance the 
person so adorned, though she may not de- 
serve a place in»your inmost heart. 

The understanding must next be examined : 
and this is a point which requires so much un- 
derstanding to judge of in another, that I must 
earnestly recommend to you, not to rely en- 
tirely on your own, but to take the opinion of 
your older friends. I do not wish you to seek 
for bright and uncommon talents, though these 
are sources of inexhaustible delight and im- 
provement, when found in company with solid 
judgment and sound principles. Good sense 
^by which I mean a capacity for reasoning 
justly and discerning truly) applied to the us«>s 
of life, and exercised in distinguishing charac- 
ters and directing conduct, is alone necesswy 



62 WORKS OF 

to am intimate connexion ; but, without thiA 
the best intentions, though certain of reward 
hereafter, may fail of producing their effects in 
this life; nor can they singly constitute the 
character of an useful and valuable friend. 
On the other hand, the most dazzling genius, 
or the most engaging wit and humour* can but 
ill answer the purposes of friendship, without 
plain common sense and a faculty of just rea- 
soning. 

What can one do with those who will not be 
answered with reason ; and who, when you 
are endeavouring to convince or persuade them 
by serious argument, will parry the blow with 
a witty repartee or a stroke of poignant raille- 
ry ? I know not whether such a reply is less 
provoking than that of an obstinate fool, who 
answers your strongest reasons with "What 
you say maybe very true, but this is my way of 
thinking." A small acquaintance with the 
world will show you instances of the most ab- 
surd and foolish conduct, in persons of brilliant 
parts and entertaining faculties. But, how tri- 
fling is the talent of diverting an idle hour, com- 
pared with true wisdom and prudence, which 
are perpetually wanted to direct us safely and 
happily through life, and to make us useful and 
valuable to others ! 

Fancy, I know, will have her share, in friend- 
ship as well as in love ; you must please, as 
well as serve me, before I can love you as the 
friend of my heart. But the faculties that please 
for an evening may not please for life, The 
humourous man soon runs through his stock 
of odd stories, mimickry and jest; and the 
wit. by constantly repeated flashes, confounds 



MRS. CHAPONE. 63 

and tires one's intellect, instead of enlivening it 
with agreeable surprise : but, good sense can 
neither tire nor wear out ; it improves by ex- 
ercise, and increases in value, the more it is 
known : the pleasure it gives in conversation is 
Jasting and satisfactory, because it is accompa- 
nied with improvement ; its worth is propor- 
tioned to the occasion that calls for it, and rises 
highest on the most interesting topics ; the 
heart, as well as the understanding, finds its 
account, in it ; and our noblest interests are pro- 
moted by the entertainment we receive from 
such a companion. 

A good temper is the next qualification, the 
value of which, in a friend, you will want no 
arguments to prove, when you are truly convin- 
ced of the necessity of it in yourself, which I 
shall endeavour to show you in a following let- 
ter. But, as this is a quality in which you may 
be deceived, without a long and intimate ac- 
quaintance, you must not be hasty in forming 
connexions, before you have had sufficient op- 
portunity for making observations on this head. 
A young person, when pleased and enlivened by 
the presence of her youthful companions, sel- 
dom shows ill temper ; which must be extreme 
indeed, if it is not at least controllable in such 
situations. But, you must watch her behaviour 
to her own family, and the degree of estimation 
she stands in with them. Observe her manner 
to servants and inferiors, to children, and even 
to animals. See in what manner she bears dis- 
appointments, contradiction, and restraint ; 
and what degree of vexation she expresses on 
any accident of loss or trouble. If in such lit-? 
tie trials she shows a meek, resigned, and 



64 works or 

cheerful temper, she will probably preserve it 
on greater occasions ; but if she is impatient 
and discontented under these, how will she 
support the far greater evils which may await 
her m her progress through life ? If you should 
have an opportunity of seeing her in sickness, 
observe whether her complaints are of a mild 
and gentle kind, forced from her by pain, and 
restrained as much as possible; or whether 
they are expressions of a turbulent, rebellious 
mind, that hardly submits to the divine hand. 
See whether she is tractable, considerate, kind, 
and grateful to those about her ; or whether 
she takes the opportunity, which their compas- 
sion gives her, to tyrannize over, and torment 
them. Women are in general very liable to ill 
health, which must necessarily make them in 
some measure troublesome and disagreeable to 
those they live with. They should therefore 
take the more pains to lighten the burden as 
much as possible, by patience and good hu- 
mour ; and be careful not to let their infirmities 
break in, on the health, freedom, or enjoyments 
of others, more than is needful and just. Some 
ladies seem to think it very improper for any 
person within their reach, to enjoy a moments 
comfort while they are in pain ; and make no 
scruple of sacrificing to their own least conve- 
nience, whenever they are indisposed, the prop- 
er rest, meals, or refreshments of their servants, 
and even sometimes of their husbands and chil- 
dren. But, their selfishness defeats its own 
purpose, as it weakens that affection and tender 
pity, which excites the most assiduous services, 
and affords the most healing balm to the heart 
of the sufferer. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 65 

I have already expressed my wishes that your 
chosen friend may be some years older than 
yourself; but this is an advantage not always 
to be obtained. Whatever be her age, religion, 
discretion, good sense, and good temper, must on 
no account be dispensed with ; and, till you 
can find one so qualified, you had better make 
no closer connexion than that of a mutual in- 
tercourse of civilities and good offices. But, if 
it is always your aim to mix with the best com- 
pany, and to be worthy of such society, you 
will probably meet with some one among them 
deserving your affection, to whom you may 
be equally agreeable. 

When I speak of the best company, I do not 
mean in the common acceptation of me word — 
persons of high rank and fortune ; but rather 
the most worthy and sensible. It is, however, 
very important to a young woman to be intro- 
duced into life on a respectable footing, and to 
converse with those, whose manners and style of 
life may polish her behaviour, refine her senti- 
ments, and give her consequence in the eye of 
the >tforld. Your equals in rank are most prop- 
er for intimacy, but, to be sometimes amongst 
your superiors is every way desirable and ad- 
vantageous, unless it should inspire you with 
pride, or with the foolish desire of emulating 
their grandeur and expense. 

Above all things avoid intimacy with those 
of low birth and education ; nor think it a mark 
of humility to delight in such society ; for it 
much oftcncr proceeds from the meanest kind 
of pride, that of being the head of the compa- 
ny, and seeing your companions subservient to 
you. The servile flattery and submission, 
g g 2 



66 "WORKS OP 

which usually recommend such people, and 
make amends for their ignorance and want of 
conversation, will infallibly corrupt your heart, 
and make all company insipid from whom you 
cannot expect the same homage. Your man- 
ners and faculties, instead of improving, must 
be continually lowered to suit you to your com- 
panions ; and, believe me, you will find it no 
easy matter to raise them again to a level with 
those of polite and well-informed people. 

The greatest kindness and civility to inferiors 
is perfectly consistent with proper caution on 
this head. Treat them always with affability, 
and talk to them of their own affairs, with an 
affectionate interest ; but never make them fa- 
miliar, or^dmit them as associates in your di- 
versions : but, above all, never trust them with 
your secrets, which is putting yourself entirely 
m their power, and subjecting yourself to the 
most shameful slavery. The only reason for 
making choice of such confidants must be the 
certainty that they will not venture to blame 
or contradict inclinations, which you are con- 
scious no true friend would encourage. But 
this is a meanness into which I trust you are 
in no danger of falling. I rather hope you will 
have the laudable ambition of spending your 
time chiefly with those whose superior talents, 
education, and politeness, may continually im- 
prove you, and whose society will do you hon- 
our. However, let no advantage of this kind 
weigh against the want of principle. I have 
long ago resolved with David, that, as far as lies 
in my power, " I will not know a wicked per- 
son." Nothing can compensate for the conta- 
gion of bad example, and for the danger of 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 67 

wearing off by use that abhorrence of evil 
actions and sentiments which every innocent 
mind sets out with, but which an indiscriminate 
acquaintance in the world soon abates, and at 
length destroys. 

If you are good, and seek friendship only 
amongst the good, I trust you will be happy 
enough to find it. The wise son of Sirach pro- 
nounces that you will ! *" A faithful friend," 
saith he, " is the medicine of life ; and he that 
feareth the Lord shall find him. Whoso fear- 
eth the Lord shall direct his friendship aright ; 
for as he is, so shall his neighbour be also." In 
the same admirable book, you will find direc- 
tions how to choose and to preserve a friend. 
Indeed there is hardly a circumstance in life, 
concerning which you may not there meet with 
the best advice imaginable. Caution in making 
friendships is particularly recommended. f'Be 
in peace with many, nevertheless have but one 
counsellor of a thousand. If thou wouldst get 
a friend, prove him first, and be not hasty to 
credit him ; for some man is a friend for his own 
occasion; and will not abide in the day of trou- 
ble. And there is a friend, who being turned to 
enmity and strife, will discover thy reproach." 
Again, " Some friend is a companion at the 
table, and will not continue in the day Oi thy 
affliction; but in thy prosperity he will be as 
thyself, and will be bold over thy servants : if 
thou be brought low, he will be against thee, 
and will hide himself from thy face." Chap. ix. 
10. " Forsake not an old friend ; for the new 
is not comparable to him. A new friend is as 

* Ecclus. v. i Ecclus, vk 



68 WORKS OF 

new wine ; when it is old thou shalt drink it 
with pleasure." 

When you have discreetly chosen, the next 
point is how to preserve your friend. Numbers 
complain of the fickleness and ingratitude of 
those on whom they bestowed their affection ; 
but few examine, whether what they complain 
of is not owing to themselves. Affection is not 
like a portion of freehold land, which when once 
settled upon you is a possession for ever, with- 
out further trouble on your part. If you grow 
less deserving, or less attentive to please, you 
must expect to see the effects of your remiss- 
ness, in the gradual decline of your friend's es- 
teem and attachment. Resentment and re- 
proaches will not recall what you have lost : but, 
on the contrary, will hasten the dissolution of 
every remaining tie. The besl remedy is to 
renew your care and assiduity to deserve and 
cultivate affection, without seeming to have 
perceived its abatement. Jealousy and distrust 
are the bane of friendship, whose essence is es- 
teem and affiance. But if jealousy is expressed 
by unkind upbraidings, or, what is worse, by 
cold, haughty looks, and insolent contempt, it 
can hardly fail, if often repeated, to realize the 
misfortune, which at first perhaps was imagin- 
ary. Nothing can be more an antidote to af- 
fection than such behaviour, or than the cause 
of it, which, in reality, is nothing but pride ; 
though the jealous person would fain attribute 
it to uncommon tenderness and delicacy : But 
tenderness is never so exprest; it is indeed 
deeply sensible of unkindness, but it cannot be 
unkind; it may subsist with anger, but not with 
contempt ; it may be weakened, or even killed, 



MRS. CHAPONE. 69 

by ingratitude; but it cannot be changed into 
hatred. Remember always, that if you would 
be loved, you must be amiable. Habit may in- 
deed, for a time, supply the deficiency of mer- 
it : what we have long loved, we do not easily 
cease to love ; but habit will at length be con- 
quered by freqi tent disgusts. *" Whoso castet h 
a stone at the birds, frayeth them away ; and 
he that upbraideth his friend, breaketh friend- 
ship. Though thou drewest a sword at thy 
friend, yet despair not, for there may be a re- 
turning to favour. If thou hast opened thy 
mouth against thy friend, fear not, for there 
may be a reconciliation ; except from upbraid- 
ing, or pride, or disclosing of secrets, or a treach- 
erous wound, for, for these things every friend 
will depart." 

I have hitherto spoken of a friend in the sin- 
gular number, rather in compliance with the 
notions of most writers, who have treated of 
friendship, and who generally suppose it can 
have but one object, than from my OAvn ideas. 
The highest kind of friendship is indeed confin- 
ed to one, I mean, the conjugal, which, in its 
perfection, is so entire and absolute an union, 
of interest, will, and affection, as no other con- 
nexion can stand in competition with. But, 
there are various degrees of friendship, which 
can admit of several objects, esteemed, and de-r 
lighted in, for different qualities ; and whose 
separate rights are perfectly compatible. Per- 
haps it is not possible to love two persons ex- 
actly in the same degree ; yet the difference 
may be so small, that none of the parties cau 

* £cclus. xxii. 20, 



70 WORKS OF 

be certain on which side the scale preponde-- » 
rates. 

It is a norrowness of mind to wish to confine 
your friend's affection solely to yourself; since 
you are conscious that, however perfect your 
attachment may be, you cannot possibly supply 
to her all the blessings she may derive from se- 
veral friends, who may each love her as well as 
you do, and may each contribute largely to her 
happiness. If she depends on you alone for all 
the comforts and .advantages of friendship, your 
absence or death may leave her desolate and 
forlorn. If therefore you prefer her good 
to your own selfish gratification, you should ra- 
ther strive to multiply her friends, and be rea- 
dy to embrace in your affections all who love 
her, and deserve her love : this generosity will 
bring its own reward, by multiplying the sources 
of your pleasures and supports : and your first 
friend will love you the more for such an en- 
dearing proof of the extent of your affection, 
which can stretch to receive all who are dear to 
her. But if, on the contrary, every mark of es- 
teem shown to another excites uneasiness or 
resentment in you, the person you love must 
soon feel her connexion with you a burden and 
restraint. She can own no obligation to so sel- 
fish an attachment ; nor can her tenderness be 
increased by that which lessens her esteem. If 
she is really fickle and ungrateful, she is net 
worth your reproaches : if not, she must be 
reasonably offended by such injurious imputa- 
tions. 

You do not want to be told, that the strictest 
fidelity is required in friendship : and though 
possibly instances might lje brought, in which 



MRS. CHAPONE. 71 

even the secret of a friend must be sacrificed 
to the calls of justice and duty, yet these are 
rare and doubtful cases, alid we may venture to 

f»ronounce that *" Whoso discovereth secrets, 
oseth his credit, and shall never find a friend to 
his mind." " Love thy friend, and be faithful 
unto him : but, if thou bewrayest his secrets, 
follow no more after him. For, as a man that 
hath destroyed his enemy, so hast thou des- 
troyed the love of thy friend. As one that let- 
teth a bird go out of his hand, so hast thou let 
thy neighbour go. Follow no more after him, 
for he is too far off; he is as a roe escaped out 
of the snare. As for a wound, it may be bound 
up ; and after revilings there may be reconcile- 
ment : but he that bewray eth secrets, is without 
hope." 

But in order to reconcile this inviolable fidel- 
ity with the duty you owe to yourself or others, 
you must carefully guard against being made 
the repository of such secrets as are not fit to 
be kept. If your friend should engage in any 
unlawful pursuit ; if, for instance, she should in- 
tend to carry on an affair of love, unknown to 
her parents, you must first use your utmost en- 
deavours to dissuade her from it ; and, if she 
persists, positively and solemnly declare against 
neing a confidant in such a case. Suffer her 
not to speak to you on the subject, and warn 
her to forbear acquainting you with any step 
she may propose to take towards a marriage 
unsanctified by parental approbation. Tell 
her, you would think it your duty to apprize 
her parents of the danger, into which she was 

h Ecclus. x$vii. 16. 



*£ WORKS OF 

throwing herself. However unkindly she may 
take this at the time, she will certainly esteem 
and love vou the more for it, whenever she re- 
covers a sense of her duty, or experiences the 
sad effects of swerving from it. 

There is another case, which I should nOv 
choose to suppose possible, in addressing my- 
self to so young a person, was it not tnat too 
many instances of it have of late been exposed 
to public animadversion : I^mean the case ot a 
married woman, who encourages or tolerates 
the addresses of a lover. May no such person 
he ever called a friend of yours! but, if ever 
one whom, when innocent, you had oved, 
should fall into so fatal an error, I can only say 
that, after proper remonstrances, you must 
immediately withdraw from all intimacy and 
confidence with her. Nor let the absurd pre- 
tence of innocent intentions, in such circum- 
stances, prevail with you to lend your coun- 
tenance, a moment, to disgraceful conduct.— 
There cannot be innocence, m any degree ot 
indulgence to unlawful passion. The sacred 
obligations to marriage are very ill understood 
bv the wife, who can think herself innocent, 
while she parlies with a lover, or with love ; 
and who does not shut her heart and ears 
against the most distant approaches of either. 
A virtuous wife, though she should be so un- 
happy as not to be secured by having her 
strongest affections fixed on her husband, will 
never admit an idea of any other man, m the 
lio-ht of a lover: but, if such an idea should 
unawares intrude into her mind, she would in- 
stantly stifle it, before it grew strong enough to 
give her much uneasiness. Not to the, most 



MRS. CHAPONE- 75 

intimate friend, hardly to her own soul, would 
she venture to confess a weakness, she would 
so sincerely abhor. Whenever therefore such 
infidelity of heart is made a subject of confi- 
dence, depend upon it the corruption has 
spread far, and has been faultily indulged. 
Lnter not into her counsels : show her the 
danger she is in, and then, withdraw yourself 
from it, whilst you are yet unsullied by con- 
tagion. 

It has been supposed a duty of friendship 
to lay open every thought and every feeling of 
the heart to our friend. But I have just men- 
tioned a case, in which this is not only unne- 
cessary, but wrong, A disgraceful inclination, 
which Ave resolve to conquer, should be con- 
cealed from every body ; and is more easily 
subdued when denied the indulgence of talking 
of its object : and, I think, there may be other 
instances, in which it would be most prudent to 
keep our thoughts concealed even from our 
dot; rest friend. Some things I would commu- 
nicate to one friend, and not to another, whom 
perhaps I loved better, because I might know 
that my first friend was not so well qualified 
as the other to counsel me on that particular 
subject : a natural bias on her mind, some 
prevailing opinion, or some connexion with 
persons concerned, might make heran impro- 
per confidant with regard to one particular, 
though qualified to be so on all other occasions. 

The confidence of friendship is indeed one of 
its sweetest pleasures and greatest advantages. 
The human heart often stands in need of some 
kind and faithful partner of its cares, in whom 
ft »it:iy repose all its weaknesses, and with 
ji h 



74 WORKS OF 

whom it is sure of finding the tenderest sym- 
pathy. Far be it from me to shut up the heart 
with cold distrust, and rigid caution, or to 
adopt the odious maxim, that " we should live 
with a friend as if he were one day to become 
an enemy." But we must not wholly abandon 
prudence in any sort of connexion ; since when 
every guard is laid aside, our unbounded open- 
ness may injure others as well as ourselves. 
Secrets entrusted to us must be sacredly kept 
even from our nearest friend ; for we have no 
right to dispose of the secrets of others. 

If there is danger in making an improper 
choice of friends, my dear child, how much 
more fatal would it be to mistake in a stronger 
kind of attachment, in that which leads to an 
irrevocable engagement for life ! yet so much 
more is the understanding blinded, when once 
the fancy is captivated, that, it seems a despe- 
rate undertaking, to convince a girl in love that 
she has mistaken the character of the man she 
prefers. 

If the passions would wait for the decision 
of judgment, and, if a young woman could 
have the same opportunities of examining into 
the real character of her lover, as into that of 
a female candidate for her friendship, the same 
rules might direct you in the choice of both ; 
for, marriage being "the highest state of friend- 
ship, the qualities requisite in a friend are still 
more important in a husband. But young wo- 
men know so little of the Avbrld, especially of 
the other sex, and such pains are usually taken 
to deceive them, that they are every way un- 
qualified to choose for themselves, upon their 
Own judgment. Many a heartach shall I fee! 



MRS. CHAPONL'. 75 

for you, vay sweet girl, if I live a few years 
longer ! Since, not only all your happiness in 
this world, but your advancement in religion 
and virtue, or your apostacy from every good 
principle you have been taught, will probably 
depend on the companion you fix to for life. 
Happy will it be for you, if you are wise and 
modest enough to withdraw from temptation, 
and preserve your heart free and open to re- 
ceive the just recommendation of your parents : 
farther than a recommendation, I dare say, 
they will never go, in an affair, which, though 
it should he begun by them, ought never to be 
proceeded in, Avithout ) r our free concurrence. 

Whatever romantic notions you may hear, " 
or read of, depend upon it, those matches are 
the happiest which are made on rational 
grounds, on suitableness of character, degree, 
and fortune, on mutual esteem, and the pros- 

Eect of a real and permanent friendship. Far 
e it from me, to advise you to marry where 
you do not love ; a mercenary marriage is a 
detestable prostitution : But, on the other hand, 
an union formed upon mere personal liking, 
without the requisite foundation of esteem, 
without the sanction of parental approbation, 
and consequently without the blessing of God, 
can be productive of nothing but misery and 
shame. The passion, to which every consid- 
eration of duty and prudence is sacrificed, in- 
stead of supplying the loss of all other advan- 
tages, will soon itself be chanced into mutual 
distrust, repentance, reproaches, and finally 
perhaps into hatred. The.' distresses it brings 
will be void of every consolation : vou will 
have disgusted the friends who should be your- 



78 WORKS OF 

support ; debased yourself in the eyes of the 
world ; and, what is* much worse, in your own 
eyes ; and even in those of your husband : 
above all, you will have offended that God, 
who alone can shield you from calamity. 

From an act like this, I trust, your duty and 
gratitude to your kind parents, the first of du- 
ties next to that we owe to God, and insepara- 
bly connected with it, will effectually preserve 
you. But most young people think* they have 
fulfilled their duty, if they refrain from actual- 
ly marrying against prohibition. They suffer 
their affections, and even perhaps their word of 
honour to be engaged, without consulting their 
parents : yet satisfy themselves with resolving 
not to marry without their consent : not con- 
sidering, that, besides the wretched, useless, 
uncomfortable state they plunge themselves into, 
When they contract a hopeless engagement, 
they must likewise involve a parent in the mis- 
erable dilemma of either giving a forced con- 
sent against his judgment, or of seeing his be- 
loved child pine away her prime of life in fruit- 
less anxiety, seeing her accuse him of tyranny, 
because he restrains her from certain ruin, 
seeing her affections alienated from her family, 
and all her thoughts engrossed by one object, 
to the destruction of her health and spirits, and 
of all her improvements and occupation?. 
What a cruel alternative for parents, whose 
happiness is bound up with that of their child! 
The time to consult them is before you have 
given a lover the least encouragement; nor 
ought you to listen a moment to the man, who 
would wish you to keep his addresses secret ; 



MRS. C'HAPOMJ. 11 

Since lie thereby shows himself conscious that 
they are not fit to be encouraged. 

But perhaps I have said enough on this sub- 
ject at present ; though, if ever advice on such 
a topic can be of use, it must be before passion 
has got possession of the heart and silenced 
both reason and principle. Fix therefore in 
your mind, as deeply as possible, those rules 
of duty and prudence, which now seem rea- 
sonable to you, that they may be at hand in 
the hour of trial, and save you from the mise- 
ries, in which strong affections, unguided by 
discretion, involve so many of our sex. 

If you love virtue sincerely, you will be in- 
capable of loving an openly vicious character. 
But, alas ! your innoct nt. heart may be easily 
ensnared by an artful one ; and from this dan- 
ger nothing can secure you but the experience 
of those, whose guidance God has entrusted 
you : may you be wise enough to make use of 
it ! So will you have the fairest chance of at- 
taining the IJest blessings this world can afford, 
in a faithful and virtuous union with a worthy 
man, who may direct your stepsJn safety and 
honour through this life, and partake with you 
the rewards of virtue in that which is to come. 
But, if this happy lot should be denied you, do 
not be afraid of a single life. A worthy woman 
is never destitute of valuable friends, who in a 
great measure supply to her the want of near- 
er connexions, felie can never be slighted or 
disesteemed, while her good temper and benev- 
olence render her a blessing to her companions. 
Ray, she must be honoured by all persons of 
sense and virtue, for preferring the single slate 
to an union unworthy of her. The calamities 
h h 2 



7S WORKS OF 

of an unhappy marriage are so much greater 
than can beta! a single person, that, the unmar- 
ried woman may find abundant argument to be 
contented with her condition, when pointed 
out to her by Providence. Whether married 
or single, if your first care is to please God, you 
will undoubtedly be a blessed creature ; " for 
that which he delights in must be happy." How 
earnestly I wish you this happiness, you can 
never know, unless you could read the heart of 
Your truly affectionate. 



LETTER VI. 

ON THE GOVERNMENT OF THE TEMPER. 

The next great point of importance to your 
future happiness, my dear, is what your parents 
have, doubtless, been continually attentive to 
from your infancy, as it is impossible to under- 
take it too early ; I mean the due Regulation of 
your Temper. Though you are in a great 
measure indebted to their forming hands for 
whatever is good in it, you are sensible, no 
doubt, as every human creature is, of propen- 
sities to some infirmity of temper, which it 
must now be your own care to correct and to 
subdue ; otherwise the pains that have hitherty 
been taken with you may all become fruitless: 
and when you are your own mistress, you may 
relapse into those faults, which were originator 
in your nature, and which will require to be dil- 
igently watched and kept under, through the 
whole course of jour life* 



3IRS. CHAP0NE. 79 

If you consider, that the constant tenor of 
the gospel precepts is to promote love, peace, 
and good-will amongst men, you will not doubt 
that the cultivation of an amiable disposition 
is a great part of your religious duty ; since 
nothing leads more directly to the breach of 
charity, and to the injury and molestation of 
our fellow creatures, than the indulgence of an 
ill temper. Do not therefore think lightly of 
the offences you may commit, for want of a 
due command over it, or suppose yourself res- 
ponsible for them to your fellow creatures on- 
ly ; but, be assured, you must give a strict ac- 
count of them all to the Supreme Governor of 
the world, who has made this a great part of 
your appointed trial upon earth. 

A woman, bred up in a religious manner, 
placed above the reach of want, and out of the 
way of sordid or scandalous vices, can have 
but few temptations to the flagrant breach of 
the divine laws. It particularly concerns her 
therefore to understand them in their full im- 
port, and to consider, how far she trespasses 
against them, by such actions as appear trivial, 
when compared with murder, adultery, and 
theft, but which become of very great impor- 
tance, by being frequently repeated, and oc- 
curring in the daily transactions of life. 

The principal virtues or vices of a woman 
must be of a private and domestic kind. With- 
in the circle of her own family and dependants 
lies her sphere of action ; the scene of almost 
all those tasks and trials, which must deter- 
mine her character, and her fate, here and 
hereafter. Reflect, for a moment, how much 
the happiness of her husband, children, and 



GO WORKS OP 

servants, must depend on her temper, and you 
will see that the greatest good or evil, which 
she ever may have in her power to do, may 
arise from her correcting or indulging its infir- 
mities. 

Though I wish the principle of duty towards 
God to be your ruling motive in the exercise of 
every virtue, yet, as human nature stands in 
need of all possible helps, let us not forget how 
essential it is to present happiness, and to the 
enjoyment of this life, to cultivate such a tem- 
per as is likewise indispensably requisite to the 
attainment of higher felicity in the life to come. 
The greatest outward blessings cannot afford 
enjoyment to a mind ruffled and uneasy within 
itself. A fit of ill humour will spoil the finest 
entertainment, and is as real a torment as the 
most painful disease. Another unavoidable con- 
sequence of illtemper is the dislike and aversion 
of all who are witnesses to it, and perhaps, the 
deep and lasting resentment of those, who suf- 
fer from its effects. We all, from social or 
self-love, earnestly desire the esteem and affec- 
tion of our fellow creatures ; and indeed our 
condition makes them so necessary to us, that 
the wretch, who has forfeited them, must feel 
desolate and undone, deprived of all the best 
enjoyments and comforts the world can afford, 
and given up to his inward misery, unpitied 
and scorned. But this never can be the fate of 
a good natured person : whatever faults be 
may have, they will generally be treated with 
lenity; he will find an advocate in every hu-. 
man heart ; his errors will be lamented rather 
than abhorred ; and his virtues will be viewed 
in the fairest point of light: His good humour* 



3HKS. CHAPQKE. 8f 

without the help of great talents or acquire- 
ments, will make his company preferable to 
that of the most brilliant genius, in whom this 
quality is wanted : in short, it is almost impos- 
sible that you can be sincerely beloved by any 
body, without this engaging property, what- 
ever other excellences you may possess ; but, 
with it, you will scarcely fail of finding 
some friends and favourers, even though you 
should be destitute of almost every other ad- 
vantage. 

Perhaps you will say, " all this is very true, 
but our tempers are not in our own power ; we 
are made with different dispositions, and, if 
mine is not amiable, it is rather my unhappiness 
than my fault." This, my dear, is commonly 
said bythose who will not take the trouble to 
correct themselves. Yet, be assured, it is a de- 
lusion, and will not avail in our justification be- 
fore him, " who knoweth whereof we are 
made," and of what we are capable. It is true, 
we are not all equally happy in our dispositions ; 
but human virtue consists in cherishing and 
cultivating every good inclination, andin check- 
ing and subduing every propensity to evil. If 
you had been born with a bad temper it might 
liave been made a good one, at least with re- 
gard to its outward effects, by education, rea- 
son, and principle : and, though you are so hap- 
py as to nave a good one while young, do not 
suppose it will always continue so, if you neg- 
lect to maintain a proper command over it. 
Power, sickness, disappointments, or worldly 
iares, may corrupt and embitter the finest dis. 



82 WORKS OF 

position, if they are not counteracted by reason 
and religion. 

It is observed, that every temper is inclined, 
in some degree, either to passion, peevishness, 
or obstinacy. Many are so unfortunate as to 
be inclined to each of the three in turn : it is ne- 
cessary therefore to watch the bent of our na- 
ture, and to apply the remedies proper for the 
infirmity to which we are most liable. With. 
regard to the first, it is so injurious to society, 
and so odious in itself, especially in the female 
character, that one would think shame alone 
would be sufficient to preserve a young woman 
from giving way to it ; for it is as unbecoming 
her character to be betrayed into ill behaviour 
by passion, as by intoxication, and she ought to 
be ashamed of the one, as much as of the 
other. Gentleness, meekness, and patience, are 
her peculiar distinctions, and an enraged wo- 
man is one of the most disgusting sights in na- 
ture. 

It is plain, from experience, that the most 
passionate people can command themselves, 
when they have a motive sufficiently strong ; 
such as the presence of those they fear, or to 
whom they particularly desire to recommend 
themselves : it is therefore no excuse to persons, 
whom you have injured by unkind reproaches, 
and unjust aspersions, to tell them you was in 
a passion : the alloAving yourself to speak to 
them in passion is a proof of an insolent disres- 
pect, which the meanest of your feHow crea- 
tures would have a right to resent. When once 
you find yourself heated so far as to desire to 
,say what you know would be provoking and 
Wounding to another, you should immediately 



MKS. CllAI'ONE. 89 

resolve either to be silent, or to quit the room-, 
than to give utterance to any thing dictated by 
so bad an inclination. Be assured, you are then 
unfit to reason or to reprove, or to hear reason 
from others. It is therefore your part to retire 
from such an occasion of sin ; and wait till you 
are cool, before you presume to judge of what 
has passed. By accustoming yourself thus to 
conquer and disappoint your anger, you will, 
by degrees, find it grow weak and manageable, 
so as to leave your reason at liberty : You will 
be able to restrain your tongue from evil, and 
your looks and gestures from all expressions of 
\ iolence and ill-will. Pride, which produces so 
many evils in the human mind, is the great 
source of passion. Whoever cultivates in him- 
self a proper humility, a due sense of his own 
faults and insufficiencies, and a due respect for 
others, will find but small temptation to violent 
or unreasonable anger. 

In the case of real injuries, which justify and 
rail for resentment, there is a noble and generous 
kind of anger, a proper and necessary part of 
our nature, which has nothing in it sinful or de- 
grading. I would not wish you insensible to 
this ; for the person, who feels not an injury, 
must be incapable of being properly affected by 
benefits. With those who treat you ill without 
provocation, you ought to maintain your own 
dignity. But, in order to do this, whilst yon 
show a sense of their improper behaviour, you 
must preserve calmness, and even good-breed- 
ing ; and thereby convince them of the impo- 
tence as well as injustice of their malice. \ ou 
must also weigh every circumstance with can- 
dour and chanty, and consider whether your 



$4 WORKS OV 

showing the resentment deserved may not pre- 
ttuce ill consequences to innocent persons, as is 
almost always the case in family quarrels ; and 
whether it may not occasion the breach of some 
duty, or necessary connexion, to which you 
ought to sacrifice even your just resentments. 
Above all things, take care that a particular of- 
fence to you does not make you unjust to the 
general character of the offending person. Gen- 
erous anger does not preclude esteem for who- 
ever is really estimable, nor does it destroy 
good-will to the person of its object : it even 
inspires the desire of overcoming him by bene- 
fits, and wishes to inflict no other punishment 
than the regret of having injured one, who de- 
served his kindness : it is always placable, and 
ready to be reconciled, as soon as the offender 
is convinced of his error ; nor can any subse- 
quent injury provoke it to recur to past disol)Ii- 
gations, which had been once forgiven. But it: 
is perhaps unnecessary to give rules for this 
case ; the consciousness of injured innocence 
naturally produces dignity, and usually prevents 
excess of anger. Our passion is most unruly, 
when we are conscious of blame, and when we 
apprehend that we have laid ourselves open to 
contempt. Where we know we have been 
wrong, the least injustice in the degree of blame 
imputed to us, excites our bitterest resentment; 
but, where we know ourselves faultless, the 
sharpest accusation excites pity or contempt, 
rather than rage. Whenever, therefore, you 
feel yourself very angry, suspect yourself to be 
in the wrong, and resolve to stand the decision 
of your own conscience before you cast upon 
another the punishment, which is perhaps dt*s 



"MRS. CHAPONE. 85 

to 3'ourself. This self-examination will at least 
give you time to cool, and, if you are just, will 
dispose you to balance your own wrong with 
that of your antagonist, and to settle the ac- 
count with him on equal terms. 

Peevishness, though not so violent and fatal 
in its immediate effects, is still more unamiable 
than passion, and, if possible, more destructive 
of happiness, in as much as it operates more 
continually. Though the fretful man injures 
us less, he disgusts us more than the passionate 
one ; because lie betrays a low and little mind, 
intent on trifles, and engrossed by a paltry self- 
love, which knows not how to bear the very 
apprehension of any inconvenience. It is self- 
love then, which we must combat, when we 
find ourselves assaulted by this infirmity ; and, 
by voluntarily enduring inconveniences, we shall 
habituate ourselves to bear them with ease, and 

food-humour, when occasioned by others. — 
Vrhaps this is the best kind of religious mor- 
tification, as the chief end of denying ourselves 
any innocent indulgences must be to acquire a 
habit of command over our passions and incli- 
nations, particularly such as are likely to lead 
us into evil. Another method of conquering 
this enemy is to abstract our minds from that 
attention to trifling circumstances, which usu- 
ally creates this uneasiness. Those who are 
engaged in high and important pursuits are 
very little affected by small inconveniences. 
The man whose head is full of studious thought, 
or whose heart is full of care, will eat his dinner 
without knowing whether it was well or ill 
dressed, or whether it was served punctually at 
thu hour or not : and though absence from the 
i i 



68 WORKS OF 

common things of life is far from desirable, espe* 
cially in a woman, yet too minute and anxious 
an attention to them seldom fails to produce a 
teazing, mean, and fretful disposition. I would 
therefore wish your mind to have always some 
objects in pursuit worthy of it, that it may not 
be engrossed by such as are in themselves 
scarce worthy a moment's anxiety. It is 
chiefly in the decline of life, when amusements 
fail, and when the more importunate passions 
subside, that this infirmity is observed to grow 
upon us ; and perhaps it will seldom fail to do 
so, unless carefully watched and counteracted 
by reason. We must then endeavour to sub- 
stitute some pursuits in the place of those, 
which can only engage us in the beginning of 
our course. The pursuit of glory and happi- 
ness in another life, by every means of improv- 
ing and exalting our own mindsj- becomes more 
and more interesting to us, the nearer we draw 
to the end of all sublunary enjoyments. Read- 
ing, reflection, rational conversation, and, above 
all, conversing with God, by prayer and medi- 
tation, may preserve us from taking that anx- 
ious interest in the little comforts and conveni- 
ences of our remaining days, which usually 
gives birth to so much fretfulness in old people. 
But though the aged and infirm are most liable 
to this evil ; and they alone are to be pitied for 
it ; yet we sometimes see the young, the heal- 
thy, and those who enjoy most outward bless- 
ings, inexcusably guilty of it. The smallest dis- 
appointment in pleasure, or difficulty in the 
most trifling employment, will put wilful young 
people out of temper, and their very amuse- 
ments frequently become sources of vexation 



MRS. CHAPONE. 87 

and peevishness. How often have I seen a girl, 
preparing for a ball, or for some other public 
appearance, unable to satisfy her own vanity, 
fret over every ornament she put on, quarrel 
with her maid, with her clothes, her hair ; and 
growing still more unlovely as she grew more 
cross, be ready to fight with her looking-glass 
for not making her as handsome as she wished 
to be. She did not consider that the traces of 
this ill-humour on her countenance would be a 
greater disadvantage to her appearance than 
any defect in her dress, or even than the plain- 
est features enlivened by joy and good humour. 
There is a degree of resignation necessary even 
to the enjoyment of pleasure ; we must be ready 
and willing to give up some part of what we 
could wish for, before we can enjoy that which 
is indulged to us. I have no doubt that she, 
who frets all the while she is dressing for an as- 
sembly, will suffer still greater uneasiness when 
she is there. The same craving restless vanity 
will there endure a thousand mortifications, 
which, in the midst of seeming pleasure, wilt 
secretly corrode her heart; whilst the meek 
and humble generally find more gratification 
than they expected, and return home pleased 
and enlivened from every scene of amusement, 
though they could have staid away from it with 
perfect ease and contentment. 

Sullenness, or obstinacy, is perhaps a worse 
fault of temper than either of the former; and, 
if indulged, may end in the most fatal extremes 
of stubborn melancholy, malice and revenge. 
The resentment which, instead of being ex- 
pressed, is nursed in secret, and continually ag- 
gravated by the imagination, will, in time, be- 



S8 ^ WORKS OF 

come the ruling passion ; and then, how horri- 
ble must be his case, whose kind and pleasurable 
affections are all swallowed up by the torment- 
ing as well as detestable sentiments of hatred 
and revenge ! **' Admonish thy friend, perad- 
venture he hath not done it : or, if he hath, that 
he do it no more. Admonish thy friend, per- 
adventure he hath not said it : or, if he hath, 
that he speak it not again." Brood not over a 
resentment, which perhaps was at first ill 
grounded, and which is undoubtedly heighten- 
ed by an heated imagination. But, when you 
have first subdued jour own temper, so as to 
be able to speak calmly, reasonably, and kindly, 
then expostulate with the person you suppose 
to be in fault: hear what slie has to say; and 
either reconcile yourself to her, or quiet your 
mind under the injury, by the principle of 
Christian charity. But if it should appear that 
you yourself have been most to blame, or if 
you have been in an error, acknowledge it 
fairly and handsomely ; if you feel any reluc- 
tance to do so, be certain that it arises from 
pride, to conquer which is an absolute duty. 
" A soft answer turneth away wrath," and a 
generous confession oftentimes more than 
atones for the fault which requires it. Truth 
and justice demand that we should acknow- 
ledge conviction, as soon as we feel it, and not 
maintain an erroneous opinion, or justify a 
wrong conduct, merely from the false shame of 
Confessing our past ignorance. A false shame it 
undoubtedly is, and as impolitic as unjust, since 
your error is already seen by those tvlio ejndeav- 

* Erclus. lis. 13. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 89 

our to set you right ; but your conviction, and the 
candour and generosity of owning it freely, may 
still be an honour to you, and would greatly 
recommend you to the person with whom you 
disputed. With a disposition strongly inclined 
to sullenness or obstinacy, this must be a very 
painful exertion ; and to make a perfect con- 
quest over yourself at once may perhaps appear 
impracticable, whilst the zeal of self-justification, 
and the abhorrence of blame, are strong upon 
you. But if you are so unhappy as to yield 
to your infirmity, at one time, do not let this 
discourage you from renewing your efforts. 
Your mind will gain strength from the contest, 
and your internal enemy will by degrees be 
forced to give ground, fee not afraid to revive 
the subject, as soon as you find yourself able 
to subdue your temper ; and then frankly lay 
open the conflict you sustained at the time : by 
this you will make all the amends in your pow- 
er for your fault, and will certainly change the 
disgust you had given into pity at least, if not 
admiration. Nothing is more endearing than 
such a confession ; and you will find such a sat- 
isfaction in your own consciousness, and in the. 
renewed tenderness and esteem you will gain 
from the person concerned, that your task for 
the future will be made more easy* and your 
reluctance to be convinced will, on every occa- 
sion, grow less and less. 

The love of truth, and a real desire of im- 
provement, ought to be the only motives of 
argumentation: and, where these are sincere, 
no difficulty can be made of embracing the 
truth, as soon as it is perceivea. But, in fart, 
people oftener dispute from vanity and pride, 
i i % 



90 WORKS OF 

which make it a grievous mortification to allow 
that we are the wiser for what we have heard 
from another. To receive advice, reproof, 
and instruction, properly, is the surest sign of 
a sincere and humble heart ; and shows a great- 
ness of mind, which commands our respect 
and reverence, while it appears so willingly to 
yield to us the superiority. 

Observe, notwithstanding, that I do not wish 
you to hear of your faults without pain : Such 
an indifference would afford small hopes of 
amendment. Shame and remorse are the 
first steps to true repentance ; yet we should 
he willing to bear this pain, and thankful to the 
kind hand that inflicts it for our;good. Nor must 
we, by sullen silence under it, leave our kind 
physician in doubt, whether the operation has 
taken effect or not, or whether it has not added 
another malady, instead of curing the first. 
You must consider that those who tell you of 
your faults, if they do it from motives of kind- 
ness and not of malice, exert their friendship 
in a painful office, which must have cost them 
as great an effort as it can be to you to acknow- 
ledge the service ; and, if you refuse this en- 
couragement, you cannot expect that any orie, 
who is not absolutely obliged to it by duty, will a 
second time undertake such an ill-requited trou- 
ble. What a loss would this be to yourself! how 
difficult would be our progress to that degree 
of perfection, which is necessary to our hap- 
piness, was it not for the assistance we receive 
from each other ! this certainly is one of the 
means of grace held out to us by our merciful 
judge, and, if we reject it, we are answerable 



MRS. CHAPONE. fit 

for all the miscarriages we may fall into for 
want of it. 

I know not, whether that strange caprice, 
that inequality of taste and behaviour, so com- 
monly attributed to our sex, may be properly 
called a fault of temper ; as it seems not to be 
connected with, or arising from our animal 
frame, but to be rather the fruit of our own 
self-indulgence, degenerating by degrees into 
such a wantonness of will as knoAvs not how 
to please itself. When, instead of regulating 
our actions by reason and principle, we suffer 
ourselves to be guided by every slight and mo- 
mentary impulse of inclination, we shall, 
doubtless, appear so variable, and inconstant, 
that nobody can guess, by our behaviour to-day, 
what may be expected, from us to-morrow ; 
nor can we ourselves tell whether what we de- 
lighted in, a week ago, will now afford us the 
least degree of pleasure. It is in vain for oth- 
ers to attempt to please us ; we cannot please 
ourselves, though all we could wish for waits 
our choice : and thus does a capricious woman 
become " sick of herself, through very selfish- 
ness :" And, when this is the case, it is easy to 
judge how sick others must be of her, and how 
contemptible and disgusting she must appear. 
This wretched state is the usual consequence of 
power and flattery. May my dear child never 
meet with the temptation of that excessive and 
ill-judged indulgence from a husband, which 
sh-3 has happily escaped from her parents, and 
which seldom fails to reduce a woman to the 
miserable condition of a humoured child, al- 
ways unhappy from having nobody's will to 
study but its own. The insolence of such dt»~ 



$£ WORKS OF 

mands for yourself, and such disregard to the 
choice and inclinations of others, can seldom 
fail to make you as many enemies as there are per- 
sons obliged to bear with your humours; whilst 
a compliant, reasonable, and contented disposi- 
tion, would render you happy in yourself, and 
beloved by all your companion?? particularly 
by those, who lived constantly with you ; and, 
of what consequence this is to your happiness, 
a moment's reflection will convince you. Fam- 
ily friendships are the friendships made for us, 
if I may so speak, by God himself. With the 
kindest intentions, he has knit the bands of 
family love, by indispensable duties; and 
w r retched are they who have burst them asun- 
der by violence and ill-will, or worn them out. 
by constant little disobligations, and by the 
want of that attention to please, which the 
presence of a stranger always inspires, but 
which is so often shamefully neglected towards 
those, whom it is most our duty and interest to 
please. May you, my dear, be wise enough to 
see that every faculty of entertainment, every 
engaging qualification, which you possess, is 
exerted to the best advantage for those, whose 
love is of most importance to you ; for those 
who live under the same roof, and with whom 
you are connected for life, either by the ties 
of blood, or by the still more sacred obligations 
of a voluntary engagement. 

To make you the delight and darling of your 
family, something more is required than barely 
to be exempt from ill-temper and troublesome 
humours. The sincere and genuine smiles of 
complacency and love must adorn jour coun- 
tenance. That ready compliance, that alert- 



KRS. GHAPOFE. . 93 

Mess to assist and oblige whieh demonstrates 
true affection, must animate your behaviour, 
and endear your most common actions. Po- 
liteness must accompany your greatest familiar- 
ities, and restrain you from every thing that is 
really offensive, or which can give a moment's 
unnecessary pain. Conversation, which is so 
apt to grow dull and insipid in families, nay, 
in some to be almost wholly laid aside, must 
be cultivated with the frankness and openness 
of friendship, and by the mutual communi- 
cation of whatever may conduce to the im- 
provement or innocent entertainment of each 
other. 

Reading, whether apart or in common, will 
furnish useful and pleasing subjects ; and the 
sprightliness of youth will naturally inspire 
harmless mirth and native humour, if encoura- 
ged by a mutual desire of diverting each other, 
and making the hours pass agreeably in your 3 
own house : every amusement that offers will 
be heightened by the participation of these dear 
companions, and by talking over every incident 
together, and every object of pleasure. If 
you have any acquired talent of entertainment, 
such as music, painting, or the like, your own 
famity are those, before whom you should most 
wish to excel, and for whom you should al- 
ways be ready to exert yourself: not suffering 
the accomplishments which you have gained, 
perhaps by their means, and at their expense* 
to lie dormant, till the arrival of a stranger 
gives you spirit in the performance. Where 
this last is the case, you may be sure vanity is 
the only motive of the exertion : A stranger 
will praise you more : J>ut how little sensibility 



94 WORKS OF 

has that heart, which is not more gratified by 
the silent pleasure painted on the countenance 
of a partial parent, or of an affectionate broth- 
er, than by the empty compliments of a visitor, 
who is perhaps inwardly more disposed to 
criticise and ridicule than to admire you ? 

I have been longer in this letter than I in- 
tended, yet it is with difficulty I can quit the 
subject, because I think it is seldom sufficient- 
ly insisted on, either in books or in sermons ; 
and because there are many persons weak 
^enough to believe themselves in a safe and in- 
nocent course of life, whilst they are daily har- 
assing every body about them by their vexa- 
tious humours. But you will, I hope, constant- 
ly bear in mind, that you can never treat a fel- 
low creature unkindly, without offending the 
kind Creator and Father of all ; and that you 
can no way render yourself so acceptable to 
him as by studying to promote the happiness 
of others, in every instance, small as well as 
great. The favour of God, and the love of your 
companions, will surely be deemed rewards 
sufficient to animate your most fervent endeav- 
ours; yet this is not all: the disposition of 
mind, which I would recommend, is its own 
reward, and is in itself essential Jo happiness. 
Cultivate it therefore, my dear child, with your 
utmost diligence ; and watch the symptoms of 
ill-temper, as they rise, with a firm resolution 
to conquer them, before they are even perceiv- 
ed by any other person. In every such inward 
conflict, call upon your Maker, to assist the 
feeble nature he ham given you ; and sacrifice 
to Him every feeling that would tempt you tq 
disobedience : So will you at length attain that 






MRS. CHAPONE. 95 

irue Christian meekness, which is blessed in 
the sight of God and man ; " which has the 
promise of this life as well as of that which is 
to come." Then will you pity, in others, those 
infirmities, which you have conquered in your- 
self; and will think yourself as much bound 
to assist, by your patience and gentleness, 
those who are so unhappy as to be under the 
dominion of evil passions, as you are to impart 
a share of your riches to the poor and miser-' 
able. 

Adieu, my dearest* 



LETTER VII. 

ECONOMY. 

My dear Niece, 
Economy is so important a part of a wo- 
man's character, so necessary to her own happi- 
ness, and so essential to her performing properly 
the duties of a wife and of a mother, that it 
ought to have the precedence of all other ac- 
complishments, ana take its rank next to the 
first duties of life. It is, moreover, an art as 
well as a virtue ; and, many well-meaning per- 
sons, from ignorance, or from inconsideration, 
are strangely deficient in it. Indeed it is too 
often wholly neglected in a young woman's 
education ; and, she is sent from her father's 
house to govern a family, without the least de- 
gree of that knowledge, which should qualify 
her for it : this is the source of much inconve- 



$$ WORKS OP 

nience ; for though experience and attention 
may supply, by degrees, the want of instruc- 
tion, yet this requires time ; the family, in the 
mean time, may get into habits, which are ve- 
ry difficult to alter; and, what is worse, the 
husband's opinion of his wife's incapacity may 
be fixed too strongly to suffer him ever to think 
justly of her gradual improvements. I would 
therefore earnestly advise you to make use of 
every opportunity you can find, for the laying 
in some store of knowledge on this subject, be- 
fore you are called upon to the practice; by 
observing what passes before you ; by consult- 
ing prudent and experienced mistresses of fa- 
milies ; and by entering in a book a memoran- 
dum of every new piece of intelligence you ac- 
quire : you may afterwards compare these with 
more mature observations, and you can make 
additions and corrections as you see occasion. 
I hope it will not be long before your mother 
entrusts you with some part, at least, of the 
management of your father's house. Whilst 
you are under her eye, your ignorance cannot 
ao much harm, though the relief to her at first 
m.iy not be near so considerable as the benefit 
to yourself. 

Economy consists of so many branches, some 
of which descend to such minuteness, that it is 
impossible for me in writing to give you parti- 
cular directions. The rude outlines may per- 
haps be described, and I shall be happy if I 
can furnish you with any hint that may hereaf- 
ter be usefully applied. 

The first and greatest point is to lay out your 
general plan of living in a just proportion to 
your fortune and rauk : if these two will not 



MRS. CHAPOtfE. 97 

coincide, the last must certainly give way ; for, 
if you have right principles, you cannot fail of 
being wretched under the sense of the injustice 
as well as danger of spending beyond your in- 
come, and your distress will be continually in- 
creasing. I\o mortifications, which you can suf- 
fer from retrenching in your appearance, can bo 
comparable to this unhappiness. If you would 
enjoy the real comforts of affluence, you should 
lay your plan considerably within your income ; 
not for the pleasure of amassing wealth ; though, 
where there is a growing family, it is an absolute, 
duty to lay by something every year ; but to 
provide for contingencies, and to have the pow- 
er of indulging your choice in the disposal of 
the overplus, either in innocent pleasures, or to 
increase your funds for charity and generosity, 
which are in fact the truelundsof pleasure. 
In some circumstances, indeed, this would not 
bf prudent; there are professions, in which a 
man's success greatly depends on his making 
some figure, where the bare suspicion of pover- 
ty would bring on the reality. If, by marriage, 
you should be placed in such a situation, it will 
be your duty to exert all your skill in the man- 
agement of your income : yet, even in this case, 
I would not strain to the utmost for appear- 
ance, but would choose my models among the 
most prudent and moderate of my own class ; 
and be contented with slower advancement, 
for the sake of security and peace of mind. 

A contrary conduct is the ruin of many ; and, 
in general, the wives of men in such professions 
might live in a more retired and frugal manner 
than they do, without any ill consequence, if 
they did not make the scheme of advancing tbe 

K-k 



98 WORKS OP 

success of their husbands an excuse to them- 
selves for the indulgence of their own vanity 
and ambition. 

Perhaps it may be said, that the settling the 
general scheme of expenses is seldom the wife's 
province, and that many men do not choose 
even to acquaint her with the real state of their 
affairs. Where this is the case, a woman can 
be answerable for no more than is entrusted to 
her. But, J think it a very ill sign, for one or 
both of the parties, where there is such a want 
of openness, in what equally concerns them. As 
1 trust you will deserve the confidence of your 
husband, so I hope you will be allowed free 
consultation with him on your mutual inter- 
ests ; and, 1 believe, there are few men, who 
would not hearken to reason on their own af- 
fairs, when they saw a wife ready and desirous 
to give up her share of vanities and indulgences, 
and only earnest to promote the common good 
of the family. 

In order to settle your plan, it will be neces- 
sary to make a pretty exact calculation: and if, 
from this time, you accustom yourself to cal- 
culations in all the little expenses entrusted to 
you, you will grow expert and ready at them, 
and be able to guess very nearly, where certain- 
ty cannot be attained. Many articles of ex- 
pense are regular and fixed ; these may be val- 
ued exactly ; and, by consulting with experi- 
enced persons, you may calculate nearly the 
amount of others : any material article of con- 
sumption, in a family of any given number and 
circumstances, may be estimated pretty nearly. 
Your own expenses of clothes and pocket-mo- 
ney should be settled and circumscribed, that 
you may be sure not to exceed the justpropor- 



BTRS. CHAPONE. 99 

lion. I think it an admirable method to appro 
nriate such a portion of your income, as you 
Judge proper to bestow in charity, to be sacred- 
ly kept for that purpose, and no longer consi- 
dered as your own. By which means, you 
will avoid the temptation of giving less than 
you ought, through selfishness, or more than 

}'ou ought, through good-nature or weakiH ss. 
f your circumstances allow of it, you might 
set apart another fund for acts of liberality or 
friendship, which do not come under the head 
of charity. The having such funds ready at 
hand makes it easy and pleasant to give ; and, 
when acts of bounty are performed without ef- 
fect, the}* are generally done more kindly and 
effectually. If you are obliged in conscience to 
lay up for a family, the same method of an ap- 
propriated fund for saving will be of excellent 
use, as it will prevent that continual and often in- 
effectual anxiety, which a general desire of 
saving, without having fixed the limits, is sure 
to create. 

Regularity of payments and accounts is es- 
sential to Economy : your house-keeping should 
be settled at least once a week, and all the bills 
paid : all other tradesmen should be paid at 
farthest onoe a year. Indeed I think it more 
advantageous to pay oftener : but, if you make 
them trust you longer, they must either charge 
proportionably higher, or be losers by your 
custom. Numbers of them fail, every year, 
from the cruel cause of being obliged to give 
their customers so much longer credit than the 
dealers, from whom they take their goods, will 
allow them. If people offortune considered this, 
jliey would not defer their payments, from 



100 WORKS OF 

mere negligence, as they often do, to the ruin 
of whole families. 

You must endeavour to acquire skill in pur- 
chasing: in order to this, you should begin 
now to attend to the prices of things, and take 
every proper opportunity of learning the real 
value of every thing, as well as the marks 
whereby you are to distinguish the good from 
the bad. 

In your table, as in your dress, and in all other 
things, 1 wish you to aim atpropridy and neatness, 
or, if your state demands it, elegance, rather 
than superfluous figure. To go beyond your 
sphere, either in dress, or in the appearance of 
your table, indicates a greater fault in your cha- 
racter than to be too much within it. It is im- 
possible to enter into the minutice of the table: 
good sense and observation on the best models 
must form your taste, and a due regard to what 
you can afford must restrain it. 

Ladies, who are fond of needlework, gene- 
rally choose to consider that as a principal 
part of good housewifery : and, though I can- 
not look upon it as of equal importance with 
the due regulation of a family, yet, in a mid- 
dling rank, and with a moderate fortune, it is a 
necessary part of a woman's duty, and a con- 
siderable article in expense is saved by it. Ma- 
ny young ladies make almost every thing they 
wear ; by which means they can make a gen- 
teel figure at a small expense. This, in your 
station, is the most profitable and desirable kind 
of work ; and, as much of it as you can do, con- 
sistently with a due attention to your health, 
to the improvement of your mind, and to the 
discharge of other duties*, I should think highly 



MRS. CHAPOtfE. 101 

commendable. But, as I do not wish you to 
impose on the world by your appearance, I 
should be contented to see you worse dressed, 
rather than see your whole time employed in 
preparations for it, or any of those hours given 
to it, which are needful to make your body 
strong and active by exercise, or your mind 
rational by reading. Absolute idleness is inex- 
cusable in a woman, because the needle is al- 
ways at hand for those intervals, in which she 
cannot be otherwise employed. If you are in- 
dustrious, and if you keep good hours, you will 
find time for all your proper -employments. 
Early rising and a good disposition of time, is 
essential to economy. The necessary orders, 
and examination into household affairs, should, 
be despatched, as soon in the day, and as pri- 
vately as possible, that they may not interrupt 
your husband or guests, or break in upon 
conversation, or reading, in the remainder of 
the day. If you defer any thing that is neces- 
sary, you may be tempted by company, or by 
unforeseen avocations, to forget, or to neglect it : 
hurry and irregularity will ensue, with expen- 
sive expedients to supply the defect. 

There is in many people, and particularly in 
youth, a strange aversion to regularity, a desire 
to delay what ought to be done immediately, 
in order to do something else, which might 
as well be done afterwards. Be assured, it is 
of more consequence to you than you can con- 
ceive, to get the better of this idle procrastina- 
ting spirit, and to acquire habits of constancy 
and steadiness, even in the most trifling mat- 
ters ; without them there can be no regularity, 
or consistency of action or character ; no de- 
k k 2 



10$ *v6Rksof 

oendence on your best intentions, which a 
sudden humour may tempt you to lay aside 
for a time, and which a thousand unforeseen 
accidents will afterwards render it more and 
more difficult to execute : no one can say what 
important consequences may follow a trivial 
neglect of this kind. For example, I have 
known one of these procraslinators disoblige, 
and gradually lose very valuable friends, by 
delaying to write to them so long, that, having 
no good excuse to offer, she could not get 
courage enough to write at all, and dropped 
their correspondence entirely. 

The neatness and order of your house and 
furniture is a part of Economy which will 
greatly affect your appearance and character, 
and to which you must yourself give attention 
since it is not possible even for the rich and great 
to rely wholly on the care of servants, in such 
points, without their being often neglected. 
The more magnificently a house is furnished, 
the more one is disgusted with that air of con- 
fusion, which often prevails where attention is 
wanting in the owner. But, on the other hand, 
there is a kind of neatness, which gives a lady 
the air of a housemaid, and makes her exces- 
sively troublesome to every body, and partic- 
ularly to her husband : in this, as in all other 
branches of Economy, I wish you to avoid all 
parade and bustle. Those ladies who pique 
themselves on the particular excellence of neat- 
ness, are very apt to forget that the decent 
order of the house should be designed to pro- 
mote the convenience and pleasure of those 
who are to be in it ; and that, if it is converted 
into a cause of trouble and constraint, their 



I 

MRS. CHAPONE. 103 

husbands and guests would be happier without 
it. The love of fame, that universal passion, 
will sometimes show itself on strangely insig- 
nificant subjects ; and a person, who acts for 
praise only, will always go beyond the mark in 
every thing. The best sign of a house being 
well governed is that nobody's attention is 
called to any of the little affairs of it, hut all 
goes on so well of course that one is not led to 
make remarks upon any thing, nor to observe 
any extraordinary effort that produces the 
general result of ease and elegance, which pre- 
vails throughout. 

Domestic Economy, and the credit and hap- 
piness of a family, depend so much on the 
choice and proper regulation of servants, that 
it must be considered as an essential part both 
of prudence and duty. Those, who keep a 
great number of them, have a heavy charge on 
their consciences, and ought to think themselves 
in some measure responsible for the morals 
and happiness of so many of their fellow crea- 
tures, designed like themselves for immortality. 
Indeed the cares of domestic management are 
by no means lighter to persons of high rank 
and fortune, if they perform their duty, than to 
those of a retired station. It is with a family, 
as with a commonwealth, the more numerous 
and luxurious it becomes, the more difficult it 
is to govern it properly. Though the great are 
placed above the little attentions and employ- 
ments, to which a private gentlewoman must 
dedicate much of her time, they have a larger 
and more important sphere of action, in which, 
if they are indolent and neglectful, the whole 
government of their house and fortune must fafl 



104: WORKS OF 

into irregularity. Whatever number of depu- 
ties they may employ to overlook their affairs, 
they must themselves overlook those deputies, 
and be ultimately answerable for the conduct of 
the whole. The characters of those servants 
who are entrusted with power over the rest, 
cannot be too nicely inquired into ; and the 
mistress of the family must be ever watehful 
over their conduct : at the same time that she 
must carefully avoid every appearance of suspi- 
cion, which whilst it wounds and injures a 
worthy servant, only excites the artifice and 
cunning of an unjust one. 

None, who pretend to be friends of religion 
and virtue, should ever keep a domestic, how- 
ever expert in business, whom they know to be 
guilty of immorality. How unbecoming a 
serious character is it, to say of such an one, 
" he is a bad man, but a good servant !" What 
a preference does it show of private convenience 
to the interests of society, which demand that 
vice should be constantly discountenanced, 
especially in every one's own household ; and 
that the sober, honest, and industrious, should 
be sure of finding encouragement and reward, 
in the houses of those who maintain respectable 
characters. Such persons should be invariabl y 
strict and peremptory with regard to the be- 
haviour of their servants, in every thing which 
concerns the general plan of domestic gov- 
ernment ; but should by no means bo severe 
on small faults, since nothing so much weakens 
authority as frequent chiding. Whilst they 
require precise obedience to their rules, they 
must prove, by their general conduct, that these 
rules are the effect not of humour, but of reason. 



V 



MRS. fcHAPONE. 105 

It is wonderful that those, who are careful to 
conceal their ill-temper from strangers, should be 
indifferent how peevish and even contemptibly 
capricious they appear before their servants, 
on whom their good name so much depends, 
and from whom they can hope for no real res- 
pet, when their weakness is so apparent. — 
Vhen once a servant can say, " I cannot do 
any thing to please my mistress to-day," all 
authority is lost. 

Those who continually change their servants, 
and complain of perpetual ill-usage, have good 
reason to believe that the fault is in themselves, 
and that they do not know how to govern. — 
Few indeed possess the skill to unite authority 
with kindness, or are capable of that steady and 
uniformly reasonable conduct, which alone can 
maintain true dignity and command a willing 
and attentive obedience. Let us not forget 
that human nature is the same in all stations. 
If you can convince your servants, that you 
have a generous and considerate regard to their 
health, their interest, and their reasonable gra- 
tifications ; that you impose no commands but 
what are fit and right, nor ever reprove but with 
justice and temper ; why should you imagine 
that they will be insensible to the good they re- 
ceive, or whence suppose them incapable of 
esteeming and prizing such a mistress ? I could 
never, without indignation, hear it said that 
" servants have no gratitude ;" as if the condi- 
tion of servitude excluded the virtues of human- 
ity. The truth is, masters and mistresses have 
seldom any real claim to gratitude. They thinly 



106 WORKS OF 

highly of what they bestow, and little of the 
service they receive : they consider only their 
own convenience, and seldom reflect on the 
kind of life their servants pass with them : they 
do not ask themselves, whether it is such an 
one as is consistent with the preservation of 
their health, their morals, their leisure for reli- 
gious duties, or with a proper share of the en- 
joyments and comforts of life. Th^ dissipated 
manners, which now so generally prevail, per- 
petual absence from home, and attendance on 
assenlblies or at public places, is, in all these 
respects, pernicious to the whole household, 
and to the men servants absolutely ruinous. 
Theip only resource, in the tedious hoi'rs of 
waiting, whilst their masters and ladies are en- 
gaged in diversions, is to find out something of 
the same kind for themselves. Thus are they 
led into gaming, drinking, extravagance, and 
bad company ; and thus, by a natural progres- 
sion, they become distrest and dishonest. That 
attachment and affiance, which ought to sub- 
sist between the dependant and his protector, 
are destroyed. The master looks on his at- 
tendants as thieves and traitors, wiiilst they con- 
sider him as one, whose money only gives 
him power over them, and, who uses that 
power, without the least regard to their wel- 
fare. 

* " The fool saith, I have no friends ; I have 
no thanks for all my good deeds, and they that 
eat my bread speak evil of me." Thus fool- 
ishly do those complain, who choose their ser 

' Ectjlos. xx. 16. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 107 

vants, as well as their friends, without discre- 
tion, or who treat them in a manner that no 
worthy person will bear. 

I have been often shocked at the want of 
politeness, by which masters and mistresses 
sometimes provoke impertinence from their 
servants: a gentleman, who would resent to 
death an imputation of falsehood from his equal, 
will not scruple, without proof, to accuse his 
servant of it, in the grossest terms. I have 
heard the most insolent contempt of the whole 
class expressed at a table, whilst five or six of 
them attended behind the chairs, who, the 
company seemed to think, were without sen- 
ses, without understanding, or the natural feel- 
ings of resentment : these are cruel injuries, 
and will be retorted in some way or other. 
• If you, my dear, live to be at the head of a 
family, I hope you will not only avoid all inju- 
rious treatment of your domestics, but behave 
to them with that courtesy and good-breeding, 
which will heighten their respect as well as their 
affection. If, on any occasion, they do more 
than you have a right to require, give them at 
least the reward of seeing that they have oblig- 
ed you. If, in your service, they have any 
hardship to endure, let them see that you are 
concerned for the necessity of imposing it. — 
When they are sick, give them all the atten- 
tion and every comfort in your power, with a 
free heart and kind countenance ; * " not blem- 
ishing thy good deeds, nor using uncomfort- 
able words, when thou givest any thing. Is not 

* Ecclus. xviii. 



108 works or 

a word better than a gift? but both are with 
a gracious man ! A fool will upbraid churlish- 
ly, and a gift of the envious consumeth the 
eyes." 

Whilst you thus endear yourself to all your 
servants, you must ever carefully avoid making 
a favourite of any ; unjust distinctions, and 
weak indulgences to one, will of course excite 
envy and hatred in the rest. Your favourite 
may establish whatever abuses she pleases ; 
none will dare to complain against her, and you 
will be kept ignorant of her ill practices, but, 
will feel the effects of them, by finding all your 
other servants uneasy in their places, and, per- 
haps, by being obliged continually to change 
them. 

When they have spent a reasonable time in 
your service, and have behaved commendably, 
you ought to prefer them, if it is in your power, 
or to recommend them to a better provision. 
The hope of this keeps alive attention and gra- 
titude and is the proper support of industry. 
Like a parent, you should keep in view their 
establishment in some way, that may preserve 
their old age from indigence; and to this end, 
you should endeavour to inspire them with care 
to lay up part of their gains, and constantly 
discourage in them all vanity in dress and ex- 
travagance in idle expenses. That you are 
bound to promote their eternal as well as tem- 
poral welfare, you cannot doubt, since, next to 
your children, they are your nearest depend- 
ants. 

You ourht therefore to instruct them as far 
as you are able, furnish them with good books 



MRS. CHAPOKE. 109 

suited to their capacity, and see that they at- 
tend the public worship of God : and you must 
take care so to pass the sabbath-day as to allow 
them time, on that day at least, for reading and 
reflection at home, as well as for attendance at 
church. Though this is a part of your reli- 
gious duty, I mention it here, because it is also 
a part of family management: for the same 
reason, I shall here take occasion earnestly to 
recommend family prayers, which are useful 
to all, but more particularly to servants ; who, 
being constantly employed, are led to the neg- 
lect of private prayer; and whose ignorance 
makes it very difficult for them to frame devo- 
tions for themselves, or to choose proper helps, 
amidst the numerous books of superstitious or 
enthusiastic nonsense, which areprinted for that 
purpose. Even in a political light, this practice 
is eligible, since the idea, which it will give them 
of your regularity and decency, if not counter- 
acted by other parts of your conduct, will pro- 
bably increase their respect for you, and will 
be some restraint, at least on their outward 
behaviour, though it should foil of that inward 
influence, which in general may be hoped from 
it. 

The prudent distribution of your charitable 
gifts may not improperly be considered as a 
branch of economy, since the great duty of 
alms-giving cannot be truly fulfilled without a 
diligent attention so to manage the sums you 
can spare as to produce the most real good to 
your fellow creatures. Many are willing to give 
money, who will not bestow their time and 
consideration, and who therefore often hurt 



110 WORKS OF 

the community, when they mean to do good 
tm individuals. The larger are your funds, the 
stronger is the call upon you to exert your in- 
dustry and care in disposing of them properly. 
It seems impossible to give rules for this, as 
every case is attended with a variety of circum- 
stances which must all he considered. In gen- 
eral, charity is most useful, when it is appropri- 
ated to animate the industry of the young, to 
procure some ease and comforts to old age, and 
to support in sickness those whose daily labour 
is their only maintenance in health. They, 
who are fallen into indigence, from circumstan- 
ces of ease and plenty, and in whom education 
and habit have added a thousand wants to those 
of nature, must be considered with the tender- 
est sympathy, by every feeling heart. It is 
needless to say that to such the bare support of 
existence is scarcely a benefit; and that the 
delicacy and liberality of the manner, in which 
relief is here offered, can alone make it a real 
act of kindness. In great families, the waste 
of provisions, sufficient for the support of many 
poor ones, is a shocking abuse of the gifts o£ 
providence : nor should any lady think it be* 
neaih her to study the best means of prevent- 
ing it, and of employing the refuse of luxury in 
the relief of the poor. Even the smallest fa- 
milies may give some assistance in this way, if 
care is taken that nothing be wasted. 

I am sensible, my dear child, that very little 
more can be gathered from what I have said 
on economy, than the general importance of 
it, which cannot be too much impressed on 
your mind, since the natural turn of young 



SHIS. CHAPONE. Ill 

people is to neglect and even despise it ; not 
distinguishing it from parsimony and narrow- 
ness of spirit. But, be assured, my dear, there 
can be no true generosity without it ; and that 
the most enlarged and liberal mind will find 
itself not debased but ennobled by it. Noth- 
ing is more common than to see the same per- 
son, whose want of economy is ruining his 
family, consumed with regret and vexation at 
the effect of his profusion ; and, by endeavour- 
ing to save, in such trifles as will not amount 
to twenty pounds in a year, that which he 
wastes by hundreds, incur the character and 
suffer the anxieties of a miser, together with 
the misfortunes of a prodigal. A rational plan 
of expense will save you from all these cor- 
roding cares, and will give you the full and 
liberal enjoyment of what you spend. An air 
of ease, of hospitality and frankness will reign 
in your house, which will make it pleasant to 
your friends and to yourself. " Better is a 
morsel of bread" where this is found, than the 
most elaborate entertainment, with that air of 
constraint and anxiety, which often betrays 
the grudging heart through all the disguises of 
civility. 

That you, my dear, may unite in yourself 
the admirable virtues of generosity and econ- 
omy, which will be the grace and crown of all 
your attainments, is the earnest wish of 

Your ever affectionate. 



112 WORKS OF 

LETTER VIII. 

ON POLITENESS AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS. 

Whilst you labour to enrich your mind 
with the essential virtues of Christianity, with 
piety, benevolence, meekness, humility, integ- 
rity, and purity ; and to make yourself useful 
in domestic management, I would not have 
my dear child neglect to pursue those graces 
and acquirements, which may set her virtue 
in the most advantageous light, adorn her man- 
ners, and enlarge her understanding : and this, 
not in the spirit of vanity, but in the innocent 
and laudable view of rendering herself more 
useful and pleasing to her fellow creatures, and 
consequently more acceptable to God. Po- 
liteness of behaviour, and the attainment of 
such branches of know-ledge and such arts and 
accomplishments as are proper to your sex, 
capacity, and station, will prove so valuable to 
yourself through life, and will make you so 
oesirable a companion, that the neglect of them 
may, resonably be deemed a neglect of duty ; 
since it is undoubtedly our duty to cultivate 
the pow r ers entrusted to us, and to render our- 
selves as perfect as w r e can. 

You must have often observed that nothing 
is so strong a recommendation on a slight ac- 
quaintance as politeness ; nor does it lose its 
value by time or intimacy, when preserved, as 
it ought to be, in the nearest connexions and 
strictest friendships. This delightful qualifica- 
tion, so universally admired and respected, but 
so rarely possessed in any eminent degree, can- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 113 

uot but be a considerable object of my wishes 
for you : nor should either of us be discoura- 
ged by the apprehension that neither I am ca- 
pable of teaching, nor you of learning \t/mper- 
fection, since whatever degree you attain will 
amply reward our pains. 

To be perfectly polite, one must have great 
presence of mind, with a delicate and quick 
sense of propriety ; or, in other words, one 
should be able, to form an instantaneous judg- 
ment of what is fittest to be said or done, on 
every occasion as it offers. I have known one 
or two persons, who seemed to owe this advan- 
tage to nature only, and to have the pecu- 
liar happiness of being burn, as it were, with 
another sense, by which they had an immedi- 
ate perception of what was proper and impro- 
per in cases absolutely new to them : but this 
is the lot of very few : in general, propriety of 
behaviour must be the fruit of instruction, of 
observation, and reasoning ; and is to be culti- 
vated and improved like any other branch of 
knowledge or virtue. A good temper is a ne- 
cessary ground-work of it ; and, if to this 
is added a good understanding, applied indus- 
triously to this purpose, I think it can hardly 
foil of attaining all that is essential in it. Par- 
ticular modes and ceremonies of behaviour 
vary in different countries, and even in different 

Jmrts of the same town. These can only be 
earned by observation on the manners of those 
who are best skilled in them, and by keeping 
what is called good company. But the princi- 
ples of politeness are the same in all places. 
Wherever there are human beings, it must he 
jjmpolite to hurt the temper or to shock the 
l 1 2 



114 - works or 

passions of those you converse with. It must 
every where be good breeding, to set your 
companions in the most advantageous point 
of light, by giving each the opportunity of dis- 
playing their most agreeable talents, and by 
carefully avoiding all occasions of exposing 
their defects ; to exert }^our own endeavours to 
please, and to amuse, but not to outshine them ; 
to give each their due share of attention and 
notice, not engrossing the talk when others are 
desirous to speak, nor, suffering the conversa- 
tiorr to flag, for want of introducing something 
to continue or renew a subject ; not to push 
your advantages in argument so far that your 
antagonist cannot retreat with honour : in short, 
it is an universal duty in society to consider 
others more than yourself; " in honour pre- 
ferring one another." Christianity, in this 
rule, gives the best lesson of politeness ; yet 
judgment must be used in the application of it : 
our humility must not be strained so far as to 
distress those we mean to honour ; we must 
not quit our proper rank, nor force others to 
treat us improperly; or to accept, what we 
mean as an advantage against their wills. We 
should be perfectly easy, and make others so if 
we can. But this happy ease belongs perhaps 
to the last stage of perfection in politeness, 
and can hardly be attained till we are conscious 
that we know the rules of behaviour, and are 
not likely to offeud against propriety. In a 
very young person, who has seen little or no- 
thing of the world, this cannot be expected ; 
but a real desire of obliging, and a respectful 
attention, will in a great measure supply the 
want of knowledge, and will make every one. 



MRS. CIIAPONE. 115 

ready to overlook those deficiencies, which are 
owing only to the want of opportunities to ob- 
serve the manners of polite company. You 
ought not therefore to be too mucn depressed 
by the consciousness of such deficiencies, but 
endeavour to get above the shame of want- 
ing what 3 ou have not had the means of ac- 
quiring. Nothing heightens this false shame, 
tmd the awkwardness it occasions, so much as 
vanity. The humble mind, contented to be 
known for what it is, and unembarrassed by 
the dread of betraying its ignorance, is present 
to itself, and can command the use of under- 
standing, which will generally preserve you 
from any great indecorum, and will secure you 
from that ridicule, which is the punishment 
of affectation rather than of ignorance. Peo- 
ple of sense will never despise you, whilst you 
act naturally ; but, the moment you attempt 
to step out of your own character, you make 
yourself an object of just ridicule. 

Many are of opinion that a very young wo- 
man can hardly be too silent and reserved in 
company ; and certainly, nothing is so disgust- 
ing in youth as pertness and self-conceit. But, 
modesty should be distinguished from an awk- 
ward bashfulness, and silence should only be 
enjoined, when it would be forward and imper- 
tinent to talk. There are many proper oppor- 
tunities for a girl, young even as you are, to 
speak in company, with advantage to herself; 
and if she does it without conceit or affectation, 
she will always be more pleasing than those, 
who sit like statues without sense or motion. 
"When you are silent, your looks should show 



116 WORKS OF 

your attention and presence to the company : 
a respectful and earnest attention is the most 
delicate kind of praise, and never fails to grati- 
fy and please. You must appear to be inter- 
ested in what is said, and endeavour to improve 
yourself by it : if you understand the subject 
well enough to ask now and then a pertinent 
question, or if you can mention any circum- 
stances relating to it that have not before been 
taken notice of, this will be an agreeable way 
of showing your willingness to make a part of 
the company, and will probably draw a particu- 
lar application to you, from some one or other. 
Then, when called upon, you must not draw 
back as unwilling to answer, nor confine your- 
self merely to yes or no, as is the custom of 
many young persons, who become intolerable 
burdens to the mistress of the house, whilst 
she strives in vain to draw them into notice 
and to give them some share in the conversa- 
tion. 

In your father's house it is certainly proper 
for you to pay civility to the guests, and to talk 
to them in your turn, with modesty and res- 
pect, if they encourage you to it. Young ladies 
of near your own age, who visit there, fall of 
course to your share to entertain. But, whilst 
you exert yourself to make their visit agreeable 
to them, you must not forget what is due to the 
elder part of the company, nor, by whispering 
and laughing apart, give them cause to suspect, 
what is too often true, that they themselves 
are the subjects of your mirth. It is so shock- 
ing an outrage against society, to talk of, or 
laugh at, any person in his own presence, that 



MRS. CHAPONE. 117 

one would think it could only be committed by 
the vulgar. I am sorry however to say, that I 
have too often observed it amongst young la- 
dies, who little deserved that title whilst they 
indulged their overflowing spirits, in defiance 
of decency and good nature. The desire of 
laughing will make such inconsiderate young 
persons find a subject of ridicule, even in the 
most respectable characters. Old age, which, 
if not disgraced by vice or affectation, has the 
justest title to reverence, will be mimicked and 
Insulted ; and even personal defects and infirm- 
ities will too often excite contempt and abuse, 
instead of compassion. If you have ever been 
led into such an action, my dear girl, call it se- 
riously to mind, Avhcn you are confessing your 
faults to Almighty God: and, be fully persuad- 
ed, that it is not one of the least which you have 
to repent of. You w ill be immediately con- 
vinced of this, by comparing it with the great 
rule of justice, that of doing to all as you would 
they should do unto you. No person living is 
insensible to the injury of contempt, nor is there 
any talent so invidious, or so certain to create 
ill will, as that of ridicule. The natural effects 
of years, which all hope to attain, and the in- 
firmities of the body, which none can prevent, 
are surely of all others the most improper ob- 
jects of mirth. There are subjects enough that 
are innocent, and on which you may freely in- 
dulge the vivacity of your spirits ; for I would 
not condemn you to perpetual seriousness ; on 
the contrary, I delight in a joyous temper, at 
all ages, and particularly at yours. Delicate 
and good natured raillery amongst equal friends, 
if pointed only against such trifling errors as 



118 WORKS OF 

the owner can heartily join to laugh at, or such 
qualities as they do not pique themselves upon, 
is both agreeable and useful ; but then it must 
be offered in perfect kindness and sincere good- 
humour; if tinctured with the least degree of 
malice, its sting becomes venomous and de- 
testable. The person rallied should have liber- 
ty and ability to return the jest, which must be 
dropped upon the first appearance of its affect- 
ing the temper. 

You will wonder, perhaps, when I tell you 
that there are some characters in the world, 
which I would freely allow you to laugh at, 
though not in their presence. Extravagant 
vanity, and affectation, are the natural subjects 
of ridicule, which is their proper punishment. 
When you see old people, instead of maintain- 
ing the dignity of their years, struggling against 
nature to conceal them, affecting the graces 
and imitating the follies of youth ; or a young 
person assuming 1 he importance and solemnity 
of old age, I do not wish you to be insensible 
to the ridicule of such absurd deviations from 
truth and nature. You are welcome to laugh, 
when you leave the company, provided you 
lay up a lesson for yourself at the same time, 
and remember, that unless you improve your 
mind whilst you are young, you also will be 
an insignificant fool in old age ; and that, if you 
are presuming and arrogant in youth, you are 
as ridiculous as an old woman with a head-dress 
of flowers. 

In a young lady's behaviour towards gentle- 
men, great delicacy is certainly required; yet, 
I believe, women oftener err from too great a 
consciousness of the supposed views of men 



MRS. CHAP0NE. IIS 

than from inattention to those views, or want 
of caution against them. You are at present 
rather too young to want rules on this subject; 
but I could wish that you should behave al- 
most in the same manner three years hence as 
now; and retain the simplicity and innocence 
of childhood with the sense and dignity of riper 
years. Men of loose morals or impertinent 
behaviour must always be avoided: or, if at 
any time you are obliged to be in their compa- 
ny, you must keep them at a distance by cold 
civility. But, with regard to those gentlemen, 
whom your parents think it proper for you to 
converse with, and who give no offence by their 
own manners, to them I wish you to behave 
with the same frankness and simplicity as if 
they were of your own sex. If you have na- 
tural modesty, you will never transgress its 
bounds, whilst you converse with a man, as 
one rational creature with another, without any 
view to the possibility of a lover or admirer, 
where nothing of that kind is profest ; where 
it is, I hope, you will ever be equallj T a stranger 
to coquetry and prudery ; and that you will be 
able to distinguish the effects of real esteem 
and love from idle gallantry and unmeaning 
fine speeches: the slighter notice you take of 
these last, the better; and that, rather with 
good humoured contempt than with affected 
gravity : but the first must be treated with se- 
riousness and well bred sincerity : not giving 
the least encouragement which you do not 
mean, nor assuming airs of contempt, whore it 
is not deserved. But this belongs to a subject, 
which I have touched upon in a former letter. 
I have already told you that you will be unsafe 



120 WORKS OF 

in every step which leads to a serious attach- 
ment, unless you consult your parents, from the 
first moment you apprehend any thing of that 
sort to be intended ; let them be your first 
confidants, and let every part of your conduct, 
in such a case, be particularly directed by 
them. 

With regard to accomplishments, the chief 
of these is a competent share of reading, well 
chosen and properly regulated ; and of this I 
shall speak more largely hereafter. Dancing 
and the knowledge of the French tongue are 
now so universal that they cannot be dispensed, 
with in the education of a gentlewoman ; and 
indeed they both are useful as well as ornamen- 
tal ; the first, by forming and strengthening the 
body, and improving the carriage : the second, 
by opening a large field of entertainment and 
improvement for the mind. I believe there 
are more agreeable books of female literature 
in French than in any other language ; and, as 
they are not less commonly talked of than En- 
glish books, you must often feel mortified in 
company, if you are too ignorant to read them. 
Italian would be easily learnt after French, and, 
if you have leisure and opportunity, may be 
worth your gaining, though in your station of 
life it is by no means necessary. 

To write a free and legible hand, and to un- 
derstand common arithmetic, are indispensa- 
ble requisites. 

As to music and drawing, I would only wish 
you to folloAv as Genius leads : you have some 
turn for the first, and I should be sorry to see 
you neglect a talent, which will at least afford 
you an innocent amusement, though it should 



MRS. CHAPONE. 421 

not enable you to give much pleasure to your 
friends : I tnink the use of both these arts is 
more for yourself than for others : it is but 
seldom that a private person has leisure or ap- 
plication enough to gain any high degree of 
excellence in them ; and your own partial fam- 
ily are perhaps the only persons who would 
not much rather be entertained by the perfor- 
mance of a professor than by yours : but, with 
regard to yourself, it is of great consequence to 
have the power of filling up agreeably those in- 
tervals of time, which too often hang heavily 
on the hands of a woman, if her lot be cast in 
a retired situation. Besides this, it is certain 
that even a small share of knowledge in these 
arts will heighten your pleasure in the perfor- 
mances of others : the taste must be improved 
before it can be susceptible of an exquisite rel- 
ish for any of the imitative arts: An unskilful 
ear is seldom capable of comprehending Har- 
mony, or of distinguishing the most delicate 
charms of Melody. The pleasure of seeing 
fine paintings, or even of contemplating the 
beauties of Nature, must be greatly heightened 
by our being conversant with the rules of draw- 
ing, and by the habit of considering the most 
picturesque objects. As I look upon taste to be 
an inestimable fund of innocent delight, I wish 
you to lose no opportunity of improving it, and 
of cultivating in yourself the relish of such 
pleasures, as will not interfere with a rational 
scheme of life, nor lead you into dissipation, 
with all its attendant evils of vanity and luxu- 
ry- 

As to the learned languages, though I respect 
the abilities and application of those ladies, who 
m m 



122 WORKS OF 

have attained them, and who make a modest 
and proper use of them, yet I would by no 
means advise you, or any woman who is not 
strongly impelled by a particular genius, to 
engage in such studies. The labour and time 
which they require are incompatible with our 
natures and proper employments : the real 
knowledge which they supply is not essential 
since the English, French, or Italian tongues 
aftbrd tolerable translations of all the most valu- 
able productions of antiquity, besides the multi- 
tude of original authors which they furnish ; 
and these are much more than sufficient to 
store your mind with as many ideas as you will 
know how to manage. The danger of pedant- 
ry and presumption in a woman, of her excit- 
ing envy in one sex and jealousy in the other, 
of her exchanging the graces of imagination 
fbr the severity and preciseness of a scholar, 
•would be, 1 own, sufficient to frighten me from 
the ambition of seeing my girl remarkable, 
for learning. Such objections are perhaps 
still stronger with regard to the abstruse scien- 
ces. 

Whatever tends to embellish your fancy, to 
enlighten your understanding, and furnish you 
with ideas to reflect upon when alone, or to con- 
verse upon in company, is certainly well worth 
your acquisition. The wretched expedient, to 
which ignorance so often drives our sex, of 
calling in slander to enliven the tedious insipidi- 
ty of conversation, would alone be a strong 
reason for enriching your mind with innocent 
subjects of entertainment, which may render 
you a fit companion for persons of sense and 
knowledge, from whom you may reap the 



MRS. CHAPONE. 123 

most desirable improvements: for, though I 
think reading indispensably necessary to the 
due cultivation of your mind, I prefer the con- 
versation of such persons to every other meth- 
od of instruction : but, this you cannot hope to 
enjoy, unless you qualify yourself to bear a 
part in such society, by, at least, a moderate 
share of reading. 

Though religion is the most important of all 
your pursuits, there are not many books on that 
subject, which I should recommend to you at 
present. Controversy is wholly improper at 
your age, and it is also too soon for you to in- 
quire into the evidence of the truth of revela- 
tion, or to study the difficult parts of scripture: 
when these shall come before you, there aiv 
many excellent books, from which you may 
receive great assistance. At present, practical 
divinity, clear of superstition and Enthusiasm, 
but addressed to the heart, and written with a 
warmth and spirit capable of exciting in it pure 
and rational piety, is what I wish you to meet 
with. 

The principal study, I would recommend, is 
history. I know of nothing equally proper to 
entertain and improve at the same time, or that 
is so likely to form and strengthen your judg- 
ment, and, by giving you a liberal and compre- 
hensive view of human nature, in some mea- 
sure to supply the defect of that experience, 
which is usually attained too late to be of much 
service to us. Let me add, that more materi- 
als for conversation are supplied by this kind 
of knowledge, than by almost any other; bul 
I have more to say to you on this subject in a 
future letter. 



121 WORKS OP 

The faculty, in which women usually most 
excel, is that of imagination ; and, when pro- 
perly cultivated, it becomes the source of all 
that is most charming in society. Nothing you 
can read will so much contribute to the im- 
provement of this faculty as poetry; which, if 
applied to its true ends, adds a thousand charms 
to those sentiments of religion, virtue, generosi- 
ty, and delicate tenderness, by which the hu- 
man soul is exalted and refined. 1 hope, you 
are not deficient in natural taste for this en- 
chanting art, but that you will find it one of 
your greatest pleasures to be conversant Avith 
the best poets, whom our language can bring 
you acquainted with, particularly those immor- 
tal ornaments of our nation, Shakespear and 
Milton. The first is not only incomparably 
the noblest genius in dramatic poetry, but the 
greatest master of nature, and the most perfect 
characteriser of men and manners : in this last 
point of view, I think him inestimable ; and I am 
persuaded, that, in the course of your life, you 
will seldom find occasion to correct those ob- 
servations on human nature, and those princi- 
ples of morality, which you may extract from 
his capital pieces. You will at first find his 
language difficult ; but, if you take the assist- 
ance of a friend, who understands it well, you 
will by decrees enter into his manner of phrase- 
ology, and perceive a thousand beauties, which 
at first lay buried in obsolete words and un- 
couth constructions. The admirable Essay on 
Shakespear which has lately appeared, so much 
to the nonour of our sex, will open your mind 
to the peculiar exellences of this author, and en- 
lighten your judgment on dramatic poetry in 



MRS. cnAPONE. 12i> 

general, Avith such force of reason and brillian- 
cy of wit as cannot fail to delight as well as in- 
struct you. 

Our great English poet, Milton, is as far 
above my praise as his Paradise Lost is above 
any thing which I am able to read, except the 
sacred writers. The sublimity of this subject 
sometimes leads him into abstruseness ; but 
many parts of his great poem are easy to all 
comprehensions, and must find their way di- 
rectly to every heart by the tenderness and de- 
licacy of his sentiments, in which he is not less 
strikingly excellent than in the richness and sub- 
limity of his imagination. Addison's criticism 
in the Spectators, written with that beauty, 
elegance, and judgment, which distinguish all 
his writings,, will assist you to understand and 
to relish this poem. 

It is needless to recommend to you the trans- 
lations of Homer and Virgil, which every body 
reads that reads at all. You must have heard 
that Homer is esteemed the father of poetry, 
the original from whence all the moderns, not 
excepting Milton himself, borrow some of their 
greatest beauties, and from whom they extract 
those rules for composition, which are found 
most agreeable to nature and true taste. Vir- 
gil, you know, is the next in rank amongst the 
classics : you will read his Eneid with extreme 
pleasure, if ever you are able to read Italian, in 
Annibal Caro's translation ; the idiom of the 
Latin and Italian languages being more alike, 
it is, I believe, much closer, yet preserves more 
of the spirit of the original than the English 
translations. 

m m 2 



126 WORKS OP 

For the rest, fame will point out to you the 
most considerable of our poets; and I would 
not exclude any of name, among those whose 
morality is unexceptionable ; but of poets as of 
all other authors, I wish you to read only such 
as are properly recommended to you ; since 
there are many who debase their divine art, 
by abusing it to the purposes of vice and impi- 
ety. If you could read poetry with a judicious 
friend, who would lead your judgment. to a true 
discernment of its beauties and defects, it 
would inexpressibly heighten both your pleas- 
ure and improvement. But, before you enter 
upon this, some acquaintance with the Heathen 
Milhology is necessary. I think that you must 
before now have met with some book under 
the title of The Pantheon: And, if once you 
know as much of the gods and goddesses as 
the most common books on the subject will tell 
you, the rest may be learned by reading Ho- 
mer : but then you must particularly attend to 
him in this view. I do not expect you to pen- 
etrate those numerous mysteries ; those ama- 
zing depths of morality, religion, and meta- 
physics ; which some pretend to have discov- 
ered in his mithology ; but, to know the names 
and principal offices of the gods and goddesses, 
with some idea of their moral meaning, seems 
requisite to the understanding almost any po- 
etical composition. As an instance of the mor- 
al meaning I speak of, I will mention an obser- 
vation of Bossuet, that Homer's poetry was 
particularly recommended to the Greeks by 
the superiority which he ascribes to them over 
the Asiatics ; this superiority is shown in the 
Iliad, not only in the conquest of Asia by the 



MRS. CHAPONE. 121 

Greeks, and in the actual destruction of its cap- 
ital, but in the division and arrangement of the 
'gods, who took part with the contending na- 
tions. On the side of Asia was Venus ; that 
is, sensual passion, pleasure, and effeminacy. 
On the side of Greece was Juno ; that is, ma- 
tronly gravity and conjugal love ; together with 
Mercury, invention and eloquence ; and Jupi- 
ter, or political wisdom. On the side of Asia 
was Mars, who represents brutal valour and 
blind fury. On that of Greece was Pal- 
las ; that is, military discipline, and bravery, 
guarded by judgment. 

This, and many other instances that might 
be produced, will show you how much of the 
beauty of the poet's art must be lost to you, 
without some notion of these allegorical per- 
sonages. Boys, in their school-learning, have 
this kind of knowledge impressed on their 
minds by a variety of books ; but women, who 
do not go through the same course of instruc- 
tion are very apt to forget what little they read 
or hear on the subject : I advise you therefore 
never to lose an opportunity of inquiring into 
the meaning of any thing you meet with in 
poetry, or in painting, alluding to the history 
of any of the heathen deities, and of obtaining 
from some friend an explanation of its connex- 
ion with true history, or of its allegorical refer- 
ence to morality or to physics. 

Natural philosophy, in the largest sense of 
the expression, is too wide a field for you to 
undertake; but, the study of nature, as far as 
may suit your powers and opportunities, you 
will find a most sublime entertainment : the 
objects of this study are all the stupendous 



1£8 WORKS'OF 

works of the Almighty Hand tliat lie'withm me 
reSfch of our observation. In the works of man 
perfection is aimed at, but, it can only be found 
in those of the Creator. The contemplation 
of perfection must produce delight, ana every 
natural object around you would offer this de- 
light, if it could attract your attention: if you 
survey the earth, every leaf that trembles in 
the breeze, every blade of grass beneath your 
feet is a wonder as absolutely beyond the reach 
of human art to imitate as the construction of 
the universe. Endless pleasures, to those who 
have a taste for them, might be derived from 
the endless variety to be found in the composi- 
tion of this globe and its inhabitants. The fos- 
sil, the vegetable, and the animal world, gradu- 
ally rising in the scale of excellence ; the innu- 
merable species of each, still preserving their 
specific differences from age to age, yet of 
which no two individuals are ever perfectly 
alike, afford such a range for observation and 
inquiry as might engross the whole term of our 
short life if followed minutely. Besides all the 
animal creation obvious to our unassisted sen- 
ses, the eye, aided by philosophical inventions, 
sees myriads of creatures, which by the igno- 
rant are not known to have existence : it sees 
all nature teem with life ; every fluid, each part 
of every vegetable and animal, swarm with its 
peculiar inhabitants ; invisible to the naked eye, 
out as perfect in all their parts, and enjoying 
life as indisputably as the elephant or the 
whale. 

But, if from the earth, and from these mi- 
nute wonders, the philosophic eye is raised to- 
wards the Heavens, what a stupendous scene 



MUS. CHAPONE. 12f) 

there opens to its view ! those brilliant lights 
that sparkle to the eye of ignorance as gems 
adorning the sky, or as lamps to guide the 
traveller by night, assume an importance that 
amazes the understanding! they appear to 
be worlds, formed like ours for a variety of 
inhabitants; or suns, enlightening numberless 
other worlds too distant for our discovery ! 1 
shall ever remember the astonishment and rap- 
ture with which my mind received this idea, 
when I was about your age ; it was then per- 
fectly new to me, and it is impossible to de- 
scribe the sensation I felt from the glorious, 
boundless prospect of infinite beneficence 
bursting at once upon my imagination ! Who 
can contemplate such a s~ene unmoved? If 
your curiosity is excited to enter upon this no- 
ble inquiry, a few books on the subject, and 
those of the easiest sort, with some of the 
common experiments, may be sufficient for 
your purpose ; which is to enlarge your mind, 
and to excite in it the most ardent gratitude 
and profound adoration towards that great, 
and good Being, who exerts his boundless 

Eower in communicating various portions of 
appiness through all the immense regions of 
creation. 

Moral philosophy, as it relates to human ac- 
tions, is of still higher importance than the 
study of nature. The works of the ancients 
on this subject are universally said to be en- 
tertaining as well as instructive, by those who 
can read them in their original languages; and 
such of them as are well translated will un- 
doubtedly, some years hence, afford you great 
pleasure and improvement. You will also find 



13q works OF 

many agreeable and useful books, written orig-. 
inally in French, and -in English, on morals 
and manners : for the present, there are 
works, which, without assuming the solemn air 
of philosophy, will enlighten your mind on 
these subjects, and introduce instruction in an 
easier dress : of this sort are many of the mor- 
al essays, that have appeared in periodical pa- 
pers ; which, when excellent in their kind....as 
are the Spectators, Guardians, Ramblers, and 
Adventurers ; are particularly useful to young 
people, as they comprehend a great variety of 
subjects ; introduce many ideas and observa- 
tions that are new to them ; and lead to a habit 
of reflecting on the characters and events that 
come before them in real life, which I consider 
as the best exercise of the understanding. 

Books on taste and criticism will hereafter 
be more proper for you than at present : what- 
ever can improve your discernment, andf: ren- 
der your taste elegant and just, must be of 
great consequence to your enjoyments as well 
as to the embellishment of your understanding. 

I would by no means exclude the kind of 
reading, which young people are naturally 
most fond of; though I think the greatest care 
should be taken in the choice of those fictitious 
stories, that so enchant the mind, most of 
which tend to inflame the passions of youth, 
whilst the chief purpose of education should 
be to moderate and restrain them. Add to 
this, that both the writing and sentiments of 
most novels and romances are such as are only 
proper to vitiate your style, and to mislead 
your heart and understanding. The expecta*- 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 131 

tion of extraordinary adventures, which seldom 
ever happen to the sober and prudent part of 
mankind, and the admiration of extravagant 
passions and absurd conduct, are some of the 
usual fruits of this kind of reading; which, 
when a young woman makes it her chief 
amusement, generally renders her ridiculous in 
conversation, and miserably wrong-headed in 
her pursuits and behaviour. There are how- 
ever works of this class, in which excellent mo- 
rality is joined with the most lively pictures of 
the human mind, and with all that can enter- 
tain the imagination and interest the heart. 
But, I must repeatedly exhort you, never to 
read any thing of the sentimental kind, without 
taking the judgment of your best friends in the 
choice ; for, I am persuaded, that the indis- 
criminate reading of such kind of books cor- 
rupts more female hearts than any other cause 
whatsoever. 

Before I close this correspondence, I shall 
point out the course of history I wish you to 
pursue, and give you my thoughts of geography 
and chronology, some knowledge of both being, 
in my opinion, necessary to the reading of his- 
tory with any advantage. 

I am. my dearest niece, 

Yortr ever affectionate, 



IM WORKS OF 

LETTER IX. 

ON GEOGRAPHY AND CHRONOLOGY, 

My Dear Niece, 

I have told you that you will not be able to 
read history, with much pleasure, or advantage, 
without some little knowledge of Geography 
and Chronology. They are both very easily at- 
tained, I mean in the degree that will be neces- 
sary for you. You must be sensible that you can 
know but little of a country, whose situation 
with respect to the rest of the world you are 
entirely ignorant of, and that, it is to little pur- 
pose that you are able to mention a fact, if you 
cannot nearly ascertain the time in which it 
happened, which alone in many cases, gives 
importance to the fact itself. 

In Geography, the easiest of all sciences, and 
the best adapted to the capacity of children, I 
suppose you to have made some beginning; to 
know at least the figure of the earth ; the sup* 
posed lines ; the degrees ; how to measure dis- 
tances ; and a fev/ of the common terms: if 
you do not already know these, two or three 
lessons will be sufficient to attain them : the 
rest is the work of memory, and is easily gain- 
ed by reading with maps; fori do not wish 
your knowledge to be exact and masterly, but 
such only as is necessary for the purposeof un- 
derstanding history- and. without which, even. 
a newspaper woultl be unintelligible, it may 
be sufficient for this end, if, with respect to an- 
cient Geography, you have a general idea of 
the situation of all the great states, without 



MRS. CHAPOIiE. J$3 

being able precisely to ascertain their limits. 
But, in the modern, you ought to know the 
bounds and extent of every state in Europe^ 
and its situation with respect to the rest. The 
other parts of the world will require less accu- 
rate knowledge, except with regard to the Eu- 
ropean settlements. 

It may be an useful and agreeable method, 
when you learn the situation of any important 
country, tojoin with that knoAvledge some one 
or two leading facts or circumstances concern- 
ing it, so that its particular property may al- 
ways put you in mind of the situation, and the 
situation, in like manner, recall the particular 
property. When, for instance, jou learn in 
what part of the globe to find Ethiopia, to be 
told at the same time that, in that vast unknown 
tract of country, the Christian religion wa"S 
once the religion of the state, would be of ser- 
vice, because the geographical and historical 
knowledge would assist each other. Thus, to 
join with Egypt, the nurse and parent of arts 
and of superstition ; with Persia, shocking des* 
potism and perpetual revolutions ; with ancient 
Greece,/reerfom and genius ; with Scythia, har- 
diness and conquest, are hints which you may 
make use of as you please. Perhaps annexing 
to ;iny country the idea of some familiar form 
which it most resembles may at first assist you 
to retain a general notion of it ; thus Italy has 
been called a boot, and Europe compared to a 
woman sifting. 

The difference of the ancient and modem 
names of places is somewhat perplexing ; the 
most important should be known by both 
> n 



134 Works of 

names at the same time, and you must endear 
vour to fix a few of those which are of most 
consequence so strongly in your mind, by 
thinking of them, and hems; often told of them, 
that the ancient name shall always call up the 
modern one to your memory, and the modern 
the ancient : such as the Egean Sea, now The 
Archipelago ; The Peloponnesus, now The 
Morea ; Crete, Cajidia ; Gaul, France ; Baby- 
lon, Bagdat ; Byzantium, to which the Romans 
transplanted their seat of empire, Constan- 
tinople, he. 

There have been so many ingenious contri- 
vances to make Geography easy and amusing, 
that I cannot hope to add any thing of much 
service ; I would only prevail with you not to 
neglect acquiring, by whatever method pleases 
you best, tnat share of knoAvledge in it, which 
you will find necessary, and which is so easily 
attained ; and 1 entreat that you would learn it 
in such a manner as to fix it in your mind, so 
that it may not be lost and forgotten among 
other childish acquisitions, but that it may 
remain ready for use through the rest of your 
life. 

Chronology indeed has more of difficulty ; 
but, if you do not bewilder yourself by attempt- 
ing to learn too much and too minutely at first, 
you need not despair of gaining enough for th» 
purpose of reading history with pleasure and 
utility. 

Chronology may be naturally divided into 
three parts, the Ancient, the Middle and the. 
Modern. With respect to all these the best 
direction that can be given is to fix on some 



MAS. CHArONE. 133 

periods or epochas, which, by being often men- 
tioned and thought of, explained and referred 
to, will at last be so deeply engraven on the. 
memory, that they will be ready to present 
themselves whenever you call for them : these 
indeed should be few, and ought to be well 
chosen for their importance, since they are to 
serve as elevated stations to the mind, from 
which it may look backwards and forwards 
upon a great variety of facts. 
/ Till your more learned friends shall supply 
you with better, I will take the liberty to re- 
commend the following, which I have found of 
service to myself. 

In the ancient chronology, you will find there 
were four thousand years from the creation to 
the redemption of man ; and that Noah and 
his family were miraculously preserved in 
the ark 16i>0 years after Adam's creation. 

As there is no histor) 7 , except that in the 
Bible, of any thing before the flood, we may 
set out from that great event, which happened 
as I have said above, in the year of the world 
1650. 

The 2350 years, which passed from the de- 
luge to our Saviour's birth, maybe thus divided. 
There have been four successive Empires called 
Universal, because they extended over a great 
part of the then known world ; these are usually 
distinguished by the name of The Four great 
Monarchies : the three first of them are includ- 
ed in ancient Chronology, and begun and ended 
in the following manner: 

1 st. The Assyrian Empire, founded by Nim- 
rod in the year of the world 1800, ended under 
jSardanapaJus in 32C>0, endured 1450 years, 



136 WORKS OF 

The Median, though not accounted one of 
the four great monarchies, being conquests of 
rel>els on the Assyrian empire, comes in here 
for about 200 years. 

2d, The Persian Empire, which began 
under Cyrus, in the year of the world 3450, 
ended in Darius in 3670, before Christ 330, 
lasted a little more than 200 years. 

3d, The Grecian Empire, begun under 
Alexander the Great in 3670, was soon after 
his death dismembered by his successors, but 
the different parcels into which they divided it 
w r ere possessed by their respective families, till 
the famous Cleopatra, the last of the race of 
Ptolemy, one of Alexander's captains who 
reigned in Egypt, was conquered by Julius 
Caesar, about half a century before our Lord's 
birth, which is a term of about 300 years. 

Thus you see that from the deluge to the es- 
tablishment of the first great monarchy, the 

Assyrian, is 150 years. 

The Assyrian empire continued.... 1450 

The Median 200 

The Persian 200 

The Grecian 300 

From Julius Caesar, with whom 
began the fourth great monar- 
chy, viz. the Roman, to Christ.. 50 

In all 2350 year?. 
The term from the deluge to Christ. 

I do not give you these dates and periods as 
correctly true, for 1 have taken only round 
numbers, as more easily retained by the mem- 
ory ; so that when you come to consult chro 



, Mrs. chapoke. IS? 

nological hooks or tables, you will find variances 
of some years between them and the above ac- 
counts ; but precise exactness is not material 
to a beginner. 

I offer this short table as a little specimen of 
what you may easily do for yourself; but even 
this sketch, slight as it is, will give you a gene- 
ral notion of the ancient history of the world, 
from the deluge to the birth of Christ. 

Within this period flourished the Grecian and 
Roman republics, with the history and chrono- 
logy of which it will be expected you should be 
tolerably well acquainted ; and indeed you will 
find nothing in the records of mankind so enter- 
taining. Greece was divided into many petty 
states, whose various revolutions and annals you 
can never hope distinctly to remember ; you 
are therefore to consider them as forming toge- 
ther one great kingdom, like the Germanic 
body, or the united provinces, composed sepa- 
rately of different governments but sometimes 
acting with united force for their common inter- 
est. The Lacedemonian government, formed 
by Lycurgus in the year of the world 3100, 
and the Athenian, regulated by Solon about 
the year 3440, will chiefly engage your atten- 
tion. 

In pursuing the Grecian chronology, you need 
only perhaps make one stand or epocha, at the 
time of Socrates, that wisest of philosophers, 
whom you must have heard of, who lived about 
3570 years from the creation, and about 430 
before Christ ; for within the term of 150 years 
before Socrates, and 200 after him, will tail in 
5 nS. 



133 works or 

■most of the great events and illustrious chai*ae« 
ters of the Grecian history. 

I must inform you that the Grecian method 
of dating time was by Olympiads, that is four 
complete years, so called irom the celebration, 
every fifth year, of the Olympic Games, which 
were contests in all the manly exercises, such as 
wrestling, boxing, running, chariot racing, &c. 
They were instituted in honour of Jupiter, and 
took their name from Olympia, a city of Elis, 
near which they were performed : they were 
attended by all ranks of people, from every state 
in Greece ; the noblest youths were eager to 
obtain the prize of victory, which was no other 
than an olive crown, but esteemed the most 
distinguishing ornament. These games conti- 
nued all the time that Greece retained any 
spark of liberty ; and with them begins the 
authentic history of that country, all before 
being considered as fabulous. You must there- 
fore endeavour to remember that they began 
in the year of the world 3228 ; after the flood 
1570 years; after the destruction of Troy 400 ; 
before the building of Rome 23 ; before Cyrus 
about 200, and 770 before Christ. If you can- 
not retain all these dates, at least you must not 
fail to remember the near coincidence of the 
/irst Olympiad with the building of Rome, which 
is of great consequence, because, as the Grecians 
reckoned time by Olympiads, the Romans dat- 
ed from the building of their city : and as these 
two eras are within 23 years of each other, 
you may, for the ease of memory, suppose 
them to begin together, in the year of the world 
3223. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 159 

In reading the history of the Roman Repub- 
lic, which continued in that form of govern- 
ment to the time of .Julias Caesar's dictatorship, 
about the year of the world 39G0, and about 
48 years before. Christ, you will make as many 
epochas as you shall find convenient: I will 
mention only two, the sacking of Rome by the 
Gauls, which happened in the year of the world 
3620, in the 365th year of the city, in the 97th 
Olympiad, before Christ 385, a'nd about 30 
years before the birth of Alexander. The se- 
cond epocha may be the 608th year of the city, 
when, after three obstinate wars, Carthage was> 
destroyed, and Rome was left without a rival. 

Perhaps the following bad verses, which 
were given me when I >vas young, may help to 
fix in your mind the important eras of the 
Roman and Grecian dates: You must not 
laugh at them, for chronologers do not pique 
themselves on their poetry, but they make 
use of numbers and rhymes merely as assist- 
ants to memory, being so easily learned by 
heart. 

" Rome and Olympiads bear the same date, 

" Three thousand two hundred and twenty-eight. 

"In * three hundred and sixty w r as Rome sack'd 

and torn, 
"' Thirty summers before Alexander w T as born." 

You will allow what I have said in these few 
pages is very easily learned ; yet, little as it 
is, I will venture to say that, was you as per* 

* That is, in the 365th year of the city. 



140 WORKS OF 

fectly mistress of it as of your alphabet, you 
might answer several questions relating to an^ 
cient Chronology more readily than many 
who pretend to know something of this sci- 
ence. One is not so much required to tell the 
precise year, in which a great man lived, as to 
know with whom he was cotemporary in 
other parts of the world. I would know then, 
from the slight sketch above given, about what 
year of the Roman Republic Alexander the 
great lived. You would quickly run over in 
your mind, " Alexander lived in the 3670th 
year of the world ; 330 before Christ; conse- 
quently he must have flourished about the 400$. 
of Rome, which had endured 750 years when 
Christ was born." Or suppose it was asked, 
what was the condition of Greece at the time 
of the sacking of Rome by the Gauls ; had any 
particular state, or the united body, chosen then 
to take advantage of the misfortunes of the 
Romans ? You consider that the S65th year 
of the city, tne date of that event, is 335 before 
Christ; consequently this must have happen- 
ed about the time of Philip of Macedon, father 
of Alexander, when the Grecians under such a 
leader, might have extirpated the Roman na- 
tion from the earth, had they ever heard of 
thpm, or thought the conquest of them an 
object worthy their ambition. 

Numberless questions might be answered in 
like manner, even on this very narrow circum- 
scribed plan, if it was completely mastered. I 
might require that other periods or epochas 
should be learned with the same exactness ; 
but these may serve to explain my meaning, 



MRS. CHAPONE. 141 

and to show how practicable and easy it is. 
One thing, however, I must observe, though 
perhaps it is sufficiently obvious ; which is, 
that you can make no use of this sketch of an- 
cient Chronology, nor even hope to retain it, 
till you have read the ancient history. When 
you have gone through Rollin's Histoire An- 
cienne once, then will be the time to lix the an- 
cient Chronology deep in your mind, which 
will very much enhance the pleasure and use 
of reading it a second time ; for you must re- 
member that nobody reads a history to much 
purpose, who does not go over it more than, 
once. 

When you have got through your course of 
ancient history, and are come to the more mo- 
dern, you must then have recourse to the second 
of the three divisions, viz. middle Chronology ; 
containing about 800 years, from the birth of 
our Lord, and from within 50 years of the rise 
of the Roman empire, to Charlemagne, who 
died in 814. 

This period, except in the earliest part of it, 
is too much involved in obscurity to require a 
very minute knowledge of its history; it may 
be sufficient to fix two or three of the most sin- 
gular circumstances, by their proper dates. 

The first epocha to be observed is the year 
of our Lord 330; when Constantine, the first 
Christian emperor, who restored peace to the 
oppressed and persecuted church, removed 
the seat of empire from Rome to Byzantium, 
called afterwards from him Constantinople. — 
4fter his time, about the year 400, began 
those irruptions of the Goths and Vandals, 



142 WORKS OF 

and other northern nations, who settled them- 
selves all over the western parts of the Roman 
empire, and laid the foundation of the several 
states which now subsist in Europe. 

The next epocha is the year 622 ; for the ease 
of memory say 600 ; when Mahomet, by his 
successful imposture, became the founder of the 
Saracen empire, which his followers extended 
over a great part of Asia and Africa, and over 
some provinces of Europe. At the same time, 
St. Gregory, Bishop of Rome, began to assume 
a spiritual power, which grew by degrees into 
that absolute and enormous dominion, so long 
maintained by the popes over the greatest part 
of Christendom. St. Augustine, a mission- 
ary from St. Gregory, about this time, began 
the conversion of Great Britain to Christian- 

ity. 

The third and concluding epocha in this divi- 
sion is the year 300 ; when Charlemagne, king 
of France, after having subdued the Saxons, 
repressed the Saracens, and established the 
temporal dominion of the pope by a grant of 
considerable territories, was elected emperor of 
the west and protector of the Church. The 
date of this event corresponds with that remark- 
able period of our English history, the union of 
the Heptarchy, or seven kingdoms, under Eg- 
bert. 

As to the third part of Chronology, namely 
the Modern, I shall spare you and myself all 
trouble about it at present ; for, if you follow 
the course of reading which I shall recom- 
mend, it will be some years before you reach 
modern history; and, when you do, you will 



])1RS. CHAPO^E. 14-5 

easily make periods for yourself, if you do but 
Remember carefully to examine the dates ae 
you read, and to impress on your memory 
those of very remarkable reigns or events. 

I fear you are by this time tired of Chronolo- 
gy ; but, my sole intention in what I have said 
is to convince you that it is a science not out of 
your reach, in the .moderate degree that is re- 

?uisite for you : the last volume of the Anciei^. 
Tniversal History is the best English Chrono- 
logical work I know ; if that does not come in 
your way, there is an excellent French one 
called Tablettes Chronologiques de 1' Histoire 
Universelle, Du Fresnoy, 3 tomes, Paris : there 
is also a chart of universal history, including 
Chronology, and a Biographical chart, both 
by Priestly, which you may find of service to 
you. 

Indeed, my dear, a woman makes a poor fig- 
ure who affects, as I have heard some ladies do^ 
to disclaim all knowledge of times and dates : 
the strange confusion they make of events, 
which happened in different periods, and the 
stare of ignorance when su6h are referred to 
as are commonly known, are sufficiently piti- 
able : but the highest mark of folly is to be 
proud of such ignorance, a resource, in which 
some of our sex find great consolation. 

Adieu, my dear child ! I am, with the tender-, 
est affection, 

Ever your'? . 



114 WORKS OF 



LETTER X. 

ON THE MANNER AND COURSE OF READING 
HISTORY. 

My Dear Niece, 

When I recommend to you to gain some in- 
sight into the general history of the world, per- 
haps you will think I propose a formidable 
task ; but, your apprehensions will vanish, when 
you consider that of near half the globe we 
have no histories at all ; that, of other parts of 
it, a few facts only are known to us ; and that, 
even of those nations, which make the greatest 
figure in history, the early ages are involved in 
obscurity and fable : it is not indeed allowable to 
be totally ignorant even of those fables, because 
they are the frequent subjects of poetry and 
painting, and are often referred to in more au- 
thentic histories. 

The first recorders of actions are generally 
poets : in the historical songs of the bards are 
found the only accounts of the first ages of eve-? 
ry state ; but in these we must naturally expect 
to find truth mixed with fiction, and often dis- 
guised in allegory. In such early times, before 
science has enlightened the minds of men, the 
people are ready to believe every thing ; and 
the historian, having no restraints from the fear 
of contradiction or criticism, delivers the most 
improbable and absurd tales as an account of 
the lives and actions of their forefathers : thus 
the first heroes of every nation are gods, or the 
§ons of gods ; and every great event is accom- 



MRS. CHAF0NT. 115 

panied with some supernatural agency. Ho- 
mer, whom I have already mentioned as a poet, 
you will find the most agreeable historian of the 
early ages of Greece, and Virgil will sIioav you 
the supposed origin of the Carthaginians and 
Romans. 

It will be necessary for you to. observe some 
regular plan in your historical studies, which 
can never be pursued with advantage other- 
wise than in a continued series. I do not mean 
to confine you solely to that kind of reading j 
on the contrary, I wish you frequently to relax 
with poetry or some other amusement, whilst 
you are pursuing your course of history ; I on- 
ly mean to warn you against mixing ancient 
history with modern, or general histories of one 
place with particular reigns, in another ; by 
which desultory manner of reading, many peo- 
ple distract and. confound their memories, and 
retain nothing to any purpose from such a con- 
fused mass of materials. 

The most ancient of all histories, you will 
read in your Bible: from thence you will pro- 
ceed to L'Histoire Ancienne of Rollin, who 
very ingeniously points out the connexion of 
prophane with sacred history, and enlivens his 
narrative with many agreeable and improving 
reflections ; and many very pleasing detached 
stories and anecdotes, which may serve you as 
resting places in your journey. It would be an 
useful exercise of your memory and judgment, 
to recount these interesting passages to a friend, 
either by letter or in conversation ; not in the 
words of the author, but in your own natural 
style* by memory and not by book ; and to 
o o 



146 WORKS OF 

add whatever remarks may occur to you. i 
need not say that you will please me much, 
whenever you are disposed to make this use 
of me. 

The want of memory is a great discourage- 
ment in historical pursuits, and is what every 
body complains of. Many artificial helps have 
been invented, of which, those who have tried 
them can best tell you the effects : but the most 
natural and pleasant expedient is that of con- 
versation with a friend, who is acquainted with 
the history which you are reading. By such 
conversations, you will find out how much is 
usually retained of what is read, and you will 
learn to select those characters and facts which 
are best worth preserving : for, it is by trying 
to remember every thing without distinction, 
that young people are so apt to lose every trace 
of what they read. By repeating to your friend 
what you can recollect, you will fix it in your 
memory ; and, if you should omit any striking 
particular, which ought to be retained, that friend 
will remind you of it, and will direct your atten- 
tion to it on a.second perusal. Itis a good rule, to 
oast your eye each day over what you read the 
day before, and to look over the contents of 
every book when you have finished it. 

Rollin's work takes in a large compass ; but, 
of all the ancient nations it treats of, perhaps 
there are only the Grecians and Romans, whose 
stories ought to be read with any anxious desire 
of retaining them perfectly : for the rest, such 
as the Assyrians, Egyptians, &c. I believe, you 
would find, on examination, that most of those, 
who are supposed tolerably well read in history, 



ants, chaponi?. iiT 

Remember no more than a few of the most re- 
markable facts and characters. I tell you 
this to prevent your being discouraged on 
finding so little remain in your mind after 
reading these less interesting parts of ancient 
historj\ 

But, when you come to the Grecian and Ro- 
man stories, 1 expect to find you deeply inter- 
ested and highly entertained ; and of conse- 
quence, eager to treasure up in your memory 
those heroic actions and exalted characters, by 
which a young mind is naturally so much ani- 
mated and impressed. As Greece and Rome 
were distinguished as much for genius as val- 
our, and were the theatres, not only of the 
greatest military actions, the noblest efforts of 
liberty and patriotism, but of the highest per- 
fection of arts and sciences, their immortal 
fame is a subject of wonder and emulation, 
even to these distant ag:es ; and, it is thought a 
shameful degree of ignorance, even in our sex, 
to be unacquainted with the nature and revolu- 
tions of their governments, and with the char- 
acters and stories of their most illustrious he- 
roes. Perhaps, when you are told that the gov- 
ernment and the national character of your 
own countrymen have been compared with 
those of the Romans, it may not be an useless 
amusement, in reading the Roman history, to 
carry this ohservationin your mind, and toexam- 
ine how farthe parallel holds good. The French 
have been thought to resemble the Athenians 
in their genius, though not in their love of lib- 
erty. These little hints sometimes serve to 
awaken reflection and attention in young reads 



148 WORKS OP 

ers. I leave you to make what use of them 
you please. 

When you have got through Rollin, if you 
add VerioVs Revolutions Romaines, a short, and 
very entertaining work, you may be said to 
have read as much as is absolutely necessary of 
ancient history. Plutarch's Lives of famous 
Greeks and Romans, a book deservedly of the 
highest reputation, can never be read to so 
much advantage as immediately after the his- 
tories of Greece and Rome : I should even 
prefer reading each life in Plutarch, imme- 
diately after the history of each particular 
hero, as you meet with them in Rollin or in 
Vertot. 

If hereafter you should choose to enlarge 
your plan, and should wish to know more of 
any particular people or period than you find 
in Rollin, the sources from which he drew may 
be opened to y_ou ; for there are, I believe, 
French or English translations of all the orig- 
inal historians, from whom he extracted his 
materials. 

Grevier's continuation of Rollin, I believe, 
gives the best account of the Roman emperors 
down to Constantine. What shocking instan- 
ces, will you there meet with, of the terrible 
effects of lawless power on the human mind ! 
Hoav will jou be amazed to see the. most pro- 
mising characters changed by flattery and 
self-indulgence into monsters that disgrace hu- 
manity ! to read a series of such lives as those 
of Tiberius, Nero, or Domitian, would be in- 
tolerable, were we not consoled by the view of 
those excellent emperors, who remained un-, 



MRS. CIlAFOtfE, 149 

corrupted through all temptations. When the 
mind, disgusted, depressed, and terrified, turns 
from the contemplation of those depths of vice, 
to whichthe human nature may be sunk, aTitus, 
the delight of mankind, a Trajan, an Antoninus, 
restore it to an exulting sense of the dignity, to 
which that nature may be exalted by virtue. 
Nothing is more awful than this consideration : 
a human creature given up to vice is infinitely 
below the most abject brute: the same crea- 
ture, trained by virtue to the utmost perfection 
of his nature, is " but a little lower than the 
angels, and is crowned with glory and immor- 
tality." 

Before you enter upon the modern history 
of any particular kingdom, it will be proper to 
gain some idea of that interval between ancient 
and modern times, which is justly called the 
dark and barbarous ages, and which lasted from 
Constantine to Charlemagne, perhaps one 
might say to some centuries after. On the ir- 
ruption of the northern Barbarians, who broke 
the Roman empire, and dissipated all the treas- 
ures of knowledge, as well as of riches, which 
had been *so long; accumulating in that enor- 
mous state, the European world may be said 
to have returned to a second infancy : and the 
Monkish legends, which are the only records* 
preserved of the times in which they were 
written, are not less fabulous than the tales 
of the demi-gods. 1 must profess myself ig- 
norant how to direct you to any distinct or 
amusing knowledge of the history of Europe 
during this period : some collect it from Puffen- 
dorfs Introduction ; some from The Universal 
o o 2 



150 WORKS OF 

History ; and now, perhaps, with more advau 
tage and delight, from the first volume of 
Robertsorts Charles the Fifth, in which he traces 
the progress of civilization, government, and 
arts, from the first settlements of the Barbari- 
ans ; and shows the foundation of the several 
states, into which Europe is now divided, and 
of those laws, customs, and politics, which pre- 
vail in this quarter of the world. 

In these dark ages, you will find no single 
character so interesting as that of Mahomet ; 
that bold impostor, who extended his usurped 
dominion equally over the minds and proper- 
ties of men, and propagated a new religion, 
whilst he founded a new empire, over a large 

{portion of the globe. His life has been written 
>y various hands. 

When you come to the particular histories 
of The European states, your own country 
seems to demand the precedence ; and, there 
is no part more commodious to set out from, 
since you cannot, learn the history of Great 
Britain, without becoming in some degree ac- 
quainted with almost every neighbouring na- 
tion, and without finding your curiosity excited 
to know more of those, with whom we are 
most connected. 

By the amazing progress of navigation and 
commerce, within the last two or three centu- 
ries, all parts of the world are now connected : 
the most distant people are become well ac- 
quainted, who, for thousands of years, never 
heard of one another's existence : we are still 
every day exploring new regions ; and every 
.day see greater reason to expect that immense 



MRS. C1IAF0XE. 151 

countries may yet be discovered, and America 
no longer retain the name of the New World. 
You may pass to every quarter of the earth, 
and find yourself still in the British dominion : 
this island, in which we live, is the least portion 
of it ; and, if we were to adopt the style of an- 
cient conquerors, we might call it the throne, 
from which we rule the world. To this boast 
we are better entitled than some of those who 
formerly called themselves Masters of the 
Globe, as we possess an empire of greater extent, 
and, from the superior advantages of our com- 
merce, much greater power and riches ; but, 
we have now too many rivals in dominion, to 
take upon us such haughty titles. 

You cannot be said to know the history of 
that empire, of which you are a subject, with- 
out knowing something of the East and West 
Indies, where so great a part of it is situated : 
and you will find the accounts of the discovery 
and conquest of America very entertaining, 
though you will be shocked at the injustice 
and cruelty of its conquerors. But with which 
of the glorious conquerors of mankind must not 
humanity be shocked ! Ambition, the most re- 
morseless of all passions, pursues its object by 
all sorts of means: justice, mercy, truth, and 
every thing most sacred, in vain oppose its pro- 
gress ! alas, my dear, shall I venture to tell you 
that the history of the world is little else than a 
shocking account of the wickedness and folly of 
the ambitious ! The world has ever been, and, 
I suppose, ever must be, governed and insulted 
by these aspiring spirits ; it has always, in a 
greater or less degree, groaned under their un 
just usurpation. 



To% WORKS OF 

. But let not the horror of such a scene put a 
stop to your curiosity : it is proper you should 
know mankind as they are : You must be ac- 
quainted with the heroes of the earth, and per- 
haps you may be too well reconciled to them : 
Mankind have in general a strong bias in their 
favour ; we see them surrounded with pomp 
and splendour, every thing that relates to them 
has an air of grandeur ; and, whilst we admire 
their natural powers, we are too apt to pardon 
the detestable abuse of them, to the injury and 
ruin of the human race. We are dazzled with 
false glory, and willingly give in to the delu- 
sion ; for mighty conquests, like great confla- 
grations, have something of the sublime that 
pleases the imagination, though we know, if we 
reflect at all, that the consequences of them are 
devastation and misery. 

The Western and Eastern world will present 
to you very different prospects. In America, 
the first European conquerors found nature in 
great simplicity ; society still in its infancy, and 
consequently the arts and sciences yet un- 
known : so that the facility, with which they 
overpowered these poor innocent people, was 
entirely owing to their superior knowledge in 
the arts of destroying. They found the inha- 
bitants brave enthusiastic patriots, but without 
either the military or political arts necessary 
for their defence. The two great kingdoms of 
Mexico and Peru had alone made some pro- 
gress in civilization ; they were both formed 
into regular states, and had gained some order 
and discipline : from these therefore the Spanr 
iards met with something like an opposition* 
At first indeed the invaders appeared superna- 



MRS. CHAl'OMu. IjS 

lural beings, who came upon them flying over 
the ocean, on the wings of the wind, and who, 
mounted on fiery animals, unknown in that 
country, attacked them with thunder and light- 
ning in their hands ; for such the fire-arms of 
the Spaniards appeared to this astonished peo- 
ple. But, from being worshipped as gods, they 
soon came to be feared as evil spirits ; and in 
time being discovered to be men, different 
from the Americans only in their outrageous 
injustice, and in the cruel arts of destroying, 
tHey were abhorred and boldly opposed. The 
resistance however of a million of these poor 
naked people, desperately crowding on each 
other to destruction, served only to make their 
ruin more complete. The Europeans have des- 
troyed, with the most shocking barbarity, many 
millions of the original inhabitants of these coun- 
tries, and have ever since been depopulating 
Europe and Africa to supply their places. 

Though our own countrymen have no reason 
to boast of the justice and humanity of their 
proceedings in America, yet, in comparison 
with those of the Spaniards, our possessions 
there were innocently acquired. Some of them 
were gained by conquest, or cession, from 
Spain and from other European powers ; some 
by contract with the natives, or by settlements 
on uninhabited lands. We are now possest of 
a series of colonies, extending above two thou- 
sand miles along the whole eastern coast of 
North America, besides many islands of im- 
mense value. These countries, instead of be- 
ing thinly peopled by a few hordes of ignorant 
savages, are now adorned with many great 



154 works or 

cities, and innumerable rich plantations, which 
have made ample returns to their mother coun- 
try, for the dangers and expenses which at- 
tended their first establishment. Blest with 
more natural advantages than almost any coun- 
try in the world, they are making a swift pro- 
gress in wealth and grandeur, and seem likely, 
in some future period, to be as much the seat 
of empire and of science as Europe is -at pre- 
sent. Whether their attainments in virtue and 
happiness will keep pace with their advance- 
ment in knowledge, wealth, and power, is much 
to be questioned ; for you Avill observe, in your 
historical view of the several great empires of 
the world, that as each grew up towards the 
highest pitch of greatness, the seeds of destruc- 
tion grew up with it ; luxury and vice, by de- 
basing the minds, and enervating the bodies of 
the people, left them all, in their turns, an easy 
prey to poorer and more valiant nations. 

In the east, the Europeans introduced them- 
selves in a milder way : admitted first as traders, 
and, for the more commodious carrying on 
their commerce, indulged by the powers of the 
country, in establishing a few small factories ; 
they by gentle degrees extended and strength- 
ened their settlements there, till their force be- 
came considerable enough to be thought an 
useful auxiliary to contending princes ; and, as 
it has often happened to those who have called 
in foreign powers to interfere in their domestic 
contentions, by availing themselves of the dis- 
turbances of a dismembered monarchy, they 
at length raised a power, almost independent 
of their employers. Soon the several Europe- 



MRS. CHArONE. IW.j 

an nations, who had thus got footing in the In- 
dies, jealous of each other's growing greatness, 
made the fueds of the native princes subservi- 
ent to their mutual contests ; till within a few 
years, the English, by a happy concurrence of 
circumstances, obtained the mastery, and ex- 
pelled their rivals from all their considerable 
settlements. 

The rapidity of our conquests here has been 
perhaps equal to that of the first invaders of 
America, but from different causes. Here we 
found an old established empire advanced to its 
crisis ; the magnificence and luxury of the great 
carried to the highest excess, and the people in 
a proportionable degree of oppression and de- 
basement. Thus ripe for destruction, the rival- 
ships of the viceroys, from the weakness of the 
government, become independent sovereigns, 
and the dastardly spirit of the meaner people, 
indifferent to the cause for which they were 
compelled to fight, encouraged these ambitious 
merchants to push their advantages farther 
than they could at first have supposed possible: 
with astonishment they saAv the intrepid lead- 
ers of a few hundreds of brave free Britons 
boldly oppose and repeatedly put to flight mil- 
lions of these effeminate Indian slaves ; and, in 
a short time, raise for them an empire much 
larger than their mother country. 

From these remote quarters of the world, 
let us now return to Great Britain, with the 
history of which, you ought certainly to ac- 
quaint yourself, before you enter upon that of 
any other European kingdom. It you have 
courage and industry enough to begin so high 



IIjO WORKS OF 

as the invasion of Julius Caesar, before which 
nothing is known of the inhabitants of this isl- 
and, you may set out with Rapin, and proceed 
with him to William the Conqueror. From 
this era there are other histories of England 
more entertaining than his, though, I believe, 
none esteemed more authentic. Party so 
strongly influences both historians and their 
readers, that it is a difficult and invidious task 
to point out the best amongst the number of 
English histories that offer themselves ; but, as 
you will not read with a critical view, nor enter 
deeply into politics, I think you may be allowed 
to choose that which is most entertaining ; and, 
in this view, I believe the general voice will di- 
rect you to Hume, though he goes no farther 
than the Revolution. Among other historians t 
do not forget my darling Shakespear, a faithful 
as well as a most agreeable one, whose histori- 
cal plays, if read in a series, will fix in your 
memory the reigns he has chosen, more dura- 
bly than any other history. You need not 
fear his leading you into any material mistakes, 
for he keeps surprisingly close to the truth, as 
well in the characters as in the events. One 
cannot but wish he had given us a play on the 
reign of every English king, as it would have 
been the pleasantest, and perhaps the most 
useful way of becoming acquainted with it. 

For the other portion of Great Britain, Ro- 
bertson's History of Scotland is a delightful 
work, and of a moderate size. 

Next to your own country France will be the 
most interesting object of your inquiries ; our 
ancient possessions in that country, and the 



MRS. CHAPOXE. 15? 

frequent contests we have been engaged in with 
its inhabitants, connect their history with our 
own. The extent of their dominion and influ- 
ence ; their supposed superiority in elegance and 
politeness ; their eminence in the Arts and Scien- 
ces ; and that intercourse of thought, if I may 
so call it, which subsists between us, by the 
mutual communication of literary productions, 
make them peculiarly interesting to us; and 
we cannot but find our curiosity excited to 
know their story, and to be intimately ac- 
quainted with the character, genius, and sen- 
timents of this nation. 

I do not know of any general history of 
France that will answer your purpose except 
that of Mezerai, which, even in the abridg- 
ment, is a pretty large work : there is a very 
modern one by Velly, and others, which per- 
haps may be more lively, but is still more volu- 
minous, and not yet completed. From Me- 
zerai, you may proceed with Voltaire to the 
end of the reign of Louis the Fourteenth. 

In considering the rest of Europe, your curi- 
osity may be confined within narrower limits. 
Modern history is, from the nature of it, much 
inore minute and laborious than the ancient, 
and to pursue that of so many various king- 
doms and governments would be a task unequal 
to your leisure and abilities, at least for several 
years to come : at the same time, it must be 
owned that the present system of politics and 
commerce has formed such a relation between 
the different powers of Europe, that they are 
in a manner members of one great body, and a 
pp 



15G WORKS OP 

total ignorance of any considerable state would 
throw an obscurity even upon the affairs of your 
own country : an acquaintance however with 
the most remarkable circumstances, that dis- 
tinguish the principal governments, will suffi- 
ciently enlighten you, and will enable you to 
comprehend, whatever relates to them, in the 
histories with which you are more familiar. — 
Instead of referring you for this purpose to dull 
and .uninteresting abridgments, I choose rather 
to point out to you a few small Tracts, which 
exhibit striking and lively pictures, not easily 
effaced from the memory, of the constitutions 
and the most remarkable transactions of several 
of these nations. Such are m * 

Sir William Temple's Essay on the United Pro- 

vinces. 
His Essay on Heroic Virtue, which contains. 

some account of the Saracen Empire. 
Vertot's Revolutions de Suede. 

de Portugal. 

Voltaire's Charles 12de Suede. 

Pierre le Grand. 

Puffendorf 's Account of the Popes, in his Intro- 
duction to Modern History. 

Some part of the history of Germany and 
Spain, you will see more in detail in Robert- 
son's History of Charles the Vth ; which 1 
have already recommended to you, in another 

view. •■ •; , „ 

After all this, you may still be at a loss tor 
the transactions of Europe, in the last fifty 
years ; for the purpose of giving you, in a ver> 
small compass, some idea of the state ot af- 
fairs during that period, I will venture to recom- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 159., 

mend one book more, Campbell's Slate of Eu- 
rope. 

Thus much may suffice for that moderate 
scheme, which I think is best suited to your 
sex and age. There are several excellent histo- 
ries, and memoirs of particular reigns and peri- 
ods, which I have taken no notice of in this 
circumscribed plan ; but, with which, if you 
should happen to have a taste for the study, 
you will hereafter choose to be acquainted : 
these will be read with most advantage, after 
you have gained some general vieAv of history ; 
and they will then serve to refresh your mem- 
ory, and settle your ideas distinctly, as well as 
enable you to compare different accounts of 
the persons and facts which they treat of, and 
to form your opinions of them on just grounds. 

As I cannot, with certaint) r , foresee what de- 
gree of application or genius for such pursuits 
you will be mistress of, I shall leave the defi- 
ciencies of this collection to be supplied by the 
suggestions of your more informed friends, 
who, if you explain to them how far you wish 
to extend your knowledge, will direct you to the 
proper books. 

But if, instead of an eager desire for this 
kind of knowledge, you should happen to feel 
that distaste for it, which is too common in 
young ladies, who have been indulged in read- 
ing only Avorks of mere amusement, you will 
perhaps rather think that I want mercy in 
Offering you so large a plan, than that there 
needa an apology for the deficiencies of it : but, 
romfort yourself with the assurance, that a 
taste for histor}' will grow and improve by 



160 WORKS OF 

Heading : that as you get acquainted with one 
period or nation, your curiosity cannot fail to 
be awakened for what concerns those imme- 
diately connected with it ; and thus, you will 
insensibly be led on, from one degree of know- 
ledge to another. 

If you waste in trivial amusement the next 
three or four years of your life, which are the 
prime season of improvement, believe me, you 
will hereafter bitterly regret their loss : when 
you come to feel yourself inferior in knowledge 
to almost every one you converse with ; and, 
above all, if you should ever be a mother, when 
you feel your own inability to direct and assist 
the pursuits of your children, you will then 
find ignorance a severe mortification and a real 
evil. Let this, my dear, animate your indus- 
try, and let not a modest opinion of your own 
capacity be a discouragement to your endea- 
vours after knowledge; a moderate under- 
standing, with diligent and well-directed appli- 
cation, will go much farther than a more lively 
genius, if attended with that impatience and 
inattention, which too often accompanies quick 
parts. It is not from want of capacity that so 
many women are such trifling insipid compan- 
ions, so ill qualified for the friendship and con- 
versation of a sensible man, or for the task of 
governing and instructing a family ; it is much 
oftener from the neglect of exercising the tal- 
ents which they really have, and from omitting 
to cultivate a taste for intellectual improvement : 
by this neglect, they lose the sincerest of 
pleasures; a pleasure, which would remain 
when almost every other forsakes them ; winch 



Mil*. CHAPONE. lbl 

neither fortune nor age can deprive them of, 
and which would he a comfort and resource in 
almost every possible situation of life. 

If I can but inspire you, my dear child, with 
the desire of making the most of your time and 
abilities, my end is answered ; the means of 
knowledge will easily be found by those who 
diligently seek them, and they will find their 
labours abundantly rewarded. 

And now, my dear, I think it is time to finish 
this long correspondence, which, though in 
some parts it may have been tedious to you, will 
not, 1 hope, be found entirely useless in any. 
1 have laid before you all thai my maturest re- 
flections could enable me to suggest, for the di- 
rection of your conduct through life. My love 
for you, my dearest child, extends its views be- 
yond this frail and transitory existence, it con- 
siders you as a candidate for immortality, as 
entering the list for the prize of your high call- 
ing, as contending for a crown of unfading 
glory. It sees, with anxious solicitude, the dan- 
gers that surround you, and the everlasting 
shame that must follow, if you do not exert all 
your strength in the conflict. Religion there- 
fore has been the basis of my plan, the princi- 
ple, to which every other pursuit is ultimately 
referred. Here then I have endeavoured to 
guide your researches ; and to assist you in 
forming just notions on a subject of such infi- 
nite importance, I have shown you the neces- 
sity of regulating your heart and temper, ac- 
cording to the genuine spirit of that religion, 
which I have so earnestly recommended as the 
great rule of your life. To the same principle, 
pp2 



162 works of 

I would refer your attention to domestic duties ; 
and, even that refinement and elegance of man- 
ners, and all those graces and accomplishments, 
which will set your virtues in the fairest light, 
and will engage the affection and respect of all 
who converse with you. Endeared to society 
by these amiable qualities, your influence in it 
will be more extensive, and your capacity of 
being; useful proportionally enlarged. The 
studies, which I have recommended to you, 
must be likewise subservient to the same 
views ; the pursuit of knowledge, when it is 
guided and controlled by the principles I have 
established, will conduce to many valuable 
ends : the habit of industry, it will give you, 
the nobler kind of friendships, for which it will 
qualify you, and its tendency to promote a can- 
did and liberal way of thinking, are obvious 
advantages. I might add, that a mind well in- 
formed in the various pursuits which interest 
mankind and the influence of such pursuits on 
their happiness, will embrace, with a clearer 
choice, and will more steadily adhere to, those 
principles of virtue and religion, which the judg- 
ment must ever approve, in proportion as it be- 
comes enlightened. 

May those delightful hopes be answered 
which have animated my heart, while with dil- 
igent attention I have endeavoured to apply to 
your advantage all that my own experience 
and best observation could furnish. With 
what joy should I see my dearest girl shine 
forth a bright example of every thing that is 
amiable and praise-worthy ! and how sweet 
would be the reflection that I had, in any de- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 165 

gree, contributed to make her so ! Mv heart 
expands with the affecting thought, and pours 
torth in this adieu the most ardent wishes for 
your perfection ! If the tender solicitude ex- 
pressed for your welfare by this " labour of 
love can engage your gratitude, you will al- 
ways remember how deeply your conduct 
interests the happiness of conauct 

Youc most affectionate Aunt 



ZNO OF THE THIRD VOLUME. 



CONTENTS, 






Let. i On the First Principles of Re=- 

ligion § 

ii On the Study of the Holy 

Scriptures 16 

in On the Study of the Holy 

Scriptures. Continued........ 130 

iv On the Regulation of the 

Heart and Affections 43 

v On the Regulation of the 

Heart and Affections. Con- 
tinued 54 

vi On the Government of the 

Temper 78 

vn On Economy 95 

vm....On Politeness and Accom- 
plishments 1 12 

jx....On Geographyand Chronology 132 

x... M .On the manner and course of 

reading ,. 144 



WORKS 

OP 

MRS. CHAPONE; 

NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 

CONTAINING 



■ LETTERS ON THE IM- 
PROVEMENT OF THE 
MIND. 

$. MISCELLANIES. 



III. CORRESPONDENCE WITH 
MR. RICHARDSON. 

IV. LETTERS TO MISS CAR- 
TER. 

V. FUGITIVE FIECES. 



TO WHICH IS PREFIXED, 

IS ACCOUNT OF HER LIFE AND CHARACTER 

DRAWN UP 

BY HER OWN FAMILY, 

IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
VOL. IV. 

NEW- YORK : 

rtBLlSHED BY EVERT DUYCKIXCK- 

>0. 63 WATER-STREET. 

7 k J. Harper, Printcrj. 

J818, 



TO MRS. ELIZABETH CARTER. 

DEAR MADAM, 

AS my presumption, in offering this 
little volume to the public, has been 
principally excited by you, and your 
admirable friend, Mrs. Montagu, it is 
fit you should take your share of what- 
ever blame it may incur. After a 
course of years, which should have 
added to my judgment what it has ta- 
ken from my imagination, and in 
which vanity and ambition have been 
sufficiently repressed by affliction, to 
produce to the world the trifling per- 
formances of my youth, which I then 
had modesty enough to conceal, is, I 
must confess, what my own feelings 
would never have dictated, had not 
two such friends, whose judgment and 
sincerity I could not distrust, pronoun- 
ced that so it must be. With such 
supporters, however, I think myself 
secure against contempt, and that 



rV 



when it shall be known that both my 
youth and age have been blessed and 
honoured with the friendship of Mrs. 
Carter, the world will be disposed 
to treat me with kindness, unless 
that kindness should be intercepted 
by envy. 

The following little poems you 
know were most of them written when 
I was very young, and all of them 
(except the translations) many years 
ago ; the last has already appeared in 
a far more honourable station, at the 
head of your admirable translation of 
Epictetus ; but as many persons read 
poetry who do not read philosophy, I 
am advised to reprint it here. 

The prose essays (excepting the 
Story of Fidelia, which appeared in 
the Adventurer) are late compositions. 
I fear the greater number of my read- 
ers may think them too strongly tinctu- 
red with that seriousness which has 
long been the prevailing habit of my 
mind ; while others, of a more simi- 
lar cast of thought, may possibly be 
led by them to useful and improving 



reflections. If in any mind they 
should raise or strengthen a single sen- 
timent favourable to virtue, I shall be 
better rewarded than by the most uni- 
versal applauses of the public. 

Esteemed and honoured as is my 
excellent friend, amongst the most dis- 
tinguished characters of this country, I 
persuade myself that she will not disdain 
my humbler testimony to that worth, 
which I prefer to all the learning and 
genius that have gained her the gen- 
eral admiration of the world ; but 
that she will allow me to boast of a 
title which I consider as the highest 
honour, that of 

Her most affectionate 

And faithful friend, 

H. CHAPONE. 

Wardour Street, 
Jan. 20, 1775. 



4 q ii 



MISCELLANIES. 



ESSAY I. 



ON AFFECTATION AND S IMPLICIT!. 

If I were asked •which of all the qualities 
that constitute an amiable character would 
singly go farthest in gaining my love and ad- 
miration, I should answer, without hesitation, 
Simplicity. I cannot suppose myself peculiar 
in this preference ; for I have observed the 
general attraction of this quality, which ope- 
rates even on those who are themselves most 
deficient in it. How comes it then to pass 
that an excessive desire of admiration always 
shows itself in affectation of some kind or 
other ? That every one should, in proportion 
to the strength of this desire, act in a manner 
which most effectually defeats the accomplish- 
ment of it, is surely a phenomenon in the 
moral world, not unworthy the inquiry of 
philosophers. 

Affectation is so universally acknowledged 
to be disgusting, that it is among the faults 



3 WORKS OF 

which the most intimate friends cannot ven- 
ture gravely to reprove in each other ; for, to 
tell your friends that they are habitually affect- 
ed, is to tell them that they are habitually disa- 
greeable ; which nobody can bear to hear. I 
beg leave therefore, as a general friend, with- 
out offending any one, to whisper to all those 
whose hearts confess that vanity has inspired 
them with any sort of affectation, that it never 
does, nor never can succeed as a means of pleas- 
ing. 

I have a thousand times wished to tell Flir- 
tilla, that the efforts she makes to be con- 
stantly in motion, and perpetually giggling, 
do not pass upon me for the vivacity of youth: 
I see they cost her a great deal of trouble, 
and it gives me an irritation of nerves to look 
at her ; so that it would have been much for 
her ease and mine, could I have ventured to 
beg that she would always in my presence 
give way to her natural langour and dulness, 
which would be far more agreeable to me. 

Gloriosa, whenever a remarkable instance 
of generosity or goodness is mentioned, takes 
infinite pains, with the most pompous elo- 
quence, to convince me that the action seems 
poor to the greatness of her soul ; that she 
should think half her fortune a trifling gift to 
a worthy friend ; that she would rather suffer 
the most exquisite pain herself, than see a fel- 
low creature, though a stranger, endure it ; 
and that it is a nobler effort in her to refrain 
from the most generous actions, than it would 
he in the greatest miser to perform them. I 
long to let her know, that the only effect these 






MRS. CIIArOXE. 9 

declarations produce in my mind is, a doubt, 
which I should otherwise never have enter- 
tained, whether she really possesses even 
the common portion of good-nature and be- 
nevolence. 

Humanus, on the other hand, need not be 
so much ashamed of his tenderness and good- 
ness of heart ; which is the only agreeable 
part of his character, and which ail his affect- 
ed roughness and insensibility cannot hide. 
Be content, good Humanus ; you never can 
attain the reputation to which you aspire, of 
a stern unfeeling heart ; Ave all know vou are 
good-natured and affectionate ; and it is for 
the sake of these qualities alone that we. en- 
dure all the disgusting airs of brutality you 
give yourself. 

Poor young Saunter, having observed that 
the few men of fashion and fortune who ad- 
mit him into their company are gamesters 
and debauchees, thinks nothing is more neces- 
sary to make him appear like a man of fash- 
ion and fortune than to be thought a game- 
ster and a debauchee. To this end he really 
practises some vices, and professes many 
more. He will entertain you for hours with 
boasting of ruinous bets which he never made, 
and riotous debauches of which he never was 
guilty. But nobody believes him : every bo- 
dy knows that the poor young man would be 
Sober enough, if he thought it genteel ; and, 
notwithstanding the great spirit with which 
he professes to despise his too indulgent fa- 
ther, and to wish him dead, there are strong 

Virions that he is not absolutely without 



10 WORKS OF 

natural affection, and that he really does not. 
behave ill to the good old man, except in the 
article of spending too much of his money. 
Let me persuade you, Saunter, to make an 
experiment, whether the world would not re- 
ceive you as well Avith a few good qualities, 
as with all the bad ones you assume. If you 
find it does not succeed, you may more easi- 
ly return to the w ays of vice, than you could 
to those of virtue should you delay much 
longer, and should you ever have sense enough 
to perceive what a despicable animal vanity 
has made you. 

The important airs and insolence of a rich 
mechanic, just setting up for a gentleman, is 
not a more decisive mark of a low-lived man, 
than the overstrained humility of Superbia is 
of an immeasurable pride. Whilst she depre- 
ciates herself in every sentence, and affects 
to exalt her companions so far above her, 
that she will scarcely allow herself worthy to 
converse with them, she makes them feel her 
proud condescension in a manner that is more 
offensive than the most openly assumed su- 
periority. Her aim is, to place in the strong- 
est point of view the advantages she has, or 
thinks she has, over them, and then to be 
supposed superior in herself to all those ad- 
vantages, and adorned Avith such humility as 
must lieighten their respect and admiration. 
Poor woman ! she fails in both these aims. 
Her affected humility renders her contempt- 
ibly ridiculous ; and her real pride arms 
every body's self-love against her, and dispos- 
es them to undervalue those circumstances 



MRS. CHAPONE. 11 

ou which they pee she founds her conse- 
quence. 

As liars often presume so far on the polite- 
ness of the company, which forbids the flat 
contradiction of a matter of fact, as to utter 
the most palpable falsehoods ; so the persons 
1 have described presume, on the same 
grounds, that every one they converse with 
is the dupe of their affectation. A little bet- 
ter opinion of the sagacity of others would 
save both the affected and the cunning a 
world of unnecessary trouble. Cunning does 
indeed sometimes succeed in deceiving the 
particular person to whom it is applied ; but 
a man characteristically artful is almost al- 
ways seen through by the generality of the 
world. Affected gestures, manner, or senti- 
ments in conversation are obvious to every 
understanding : every one joins in pronounc- 
ing them ridiculous. One of the most affect- 
ed women I ever knew, said to me once, in a 
tone of the utmost langour, " You know one 
had better be dead than be affected /" thus, 
all condemn what they expect to be admired 
for ; and hope, against all reason and proba- 
bility, to impose on the world by the same 
arts which they can themselves so easily dis- 
cern in others, and so readily join to deride. 

While the vain man is painfully striving to 
outshine all the company, and to attract thru- 
admiration by false wit, forced compliments, 
and studied graces, he must surely be morti- 
fied to observe how constantly Simplicius en- 
gages their attention, respect, and compla- 
cency, without having once thought of him- 



ii. WORKS OP 

self as a person of any consequence among 
them. Simplicius imparts his superior know- 
ledge, when called upon, as easily and natu- 
rally as he would tell you what it is o'clock ; 
and with the same readiness and good will 
informs the most ignorant, or confers with the 
most learned. He is as willing to receive in- 
formation as to give it, and to join the com- 
pany, as far as he is able, in the most trifling 
conversation into which they happen to fall, 
as in the most serious or sublime. If he dis- 
putes, it is with as much candour on the 
most important and interesting, as on the 
most insignificant subjects, and he is not less 
patient in hearing than in answering his anta- 
gonist. If you talk to him of himself, or his 
works, he accepts praise, or acknowledge 
defects, with equal meekness, and it is impos- 
sible to suspect him of affectation in either. 
We are more obliged and gratified by the 
plai:' unexaggerated expressions of his regard, 
thau by the compliments and attentions of 
the most accomplished pattern of high breed- 
ing ; because his benevolence and sincerity 
are so strongly marked in every look, worcf, 
and action, that we are convinced his civili- 
ties are offered for our sakes, not for his 
own, and are the natural effects of real kind- 
ness, not the studied ornaments of behaviour. 
Every one is desirous to show him kindness 
in return, which we know will be accepted 
just as it is meant. All are ready to pay him 
that deference which he does not desire, and 
to give him credit for more than he assumes, 
or even for more than he possesses. With a 



BfRS. CIIAF03E. 13 

person ungraceful, and with manners unpol- 
ished by the world, his behaviour is always 
proper, easy, and respectable ; as free from 
constraint and servility in the highest com- 
pany, as from haughtiness and insolence in 
the lowest, His dignity arises from his hu- 
mility ; and the sweetness, gentleness, and 
frankness of his manners, from the real 
goodness and rectitude of his heart, which 
Res open to inspection in all the fearlessness 
of truth, without any need of disguise or or- 
nament. 

Where this foundation of real virtue is 
wanting, every art of pleasing is but the thin 
superficial covering of deformity, which be- 
comes the more disgusting by the pains taken 
to dress it in false colours. No wonder then 
that Simplicity is so sure of attracting love 
and approbation, since it implies almost eve- 
ry other virtue. No wonder that the heart, 
where envy, pride, and vanity reside, will 
not venture to trust itself to the lips or eyes. 
" Dare to be what you are" is a good maxim ; 
but it will only be put in practice by those 
who are what they ought to be. Every one 
may however rest assured, that they are gen- 
erally known for what they are, and that false- 
hood, like Cain, has a mark set upon it by 
Heaven. This mark may not be discerneH. 
on a superficial view, nor by the foolish, the 
young, and inexperienced; but in a short 
course of years it will be discovered by so 
many eyes, that the world cannot be kept 
ignorant of it, and it will then be punished by 
the scorn it deserves. 

R r 



14 WORKS OF 

Whoever, therefore, desires to please, to 
be respected and beloved, let him first give 
his attention to the inward state of his mind. 
When all is right there, outward elegances 
may be easily attained, or the want of them 
easily excused. But if nature and the heart 
have no share in dictating his behaviour, his 
looks, and his sentiments, he may be a fop, a 
dancing-master, a courtier, or a spy ; but he 
can never be an amiable man. 

This, the noble writer, whose letters to his 
son have lately engaged the attention of the 
public, seems to have forgotten. Intent on 
those worldly advantages, which cannot be 
attained without the good will of mankind, 
he unweariedly recommends and enforces 
the appearances of all that he thinks enga- 
ging, but forgets that those appearances must 
be the result of real excellences, which he 
takes no pains to inculcate. Even * sweet- 
ness of countenance he thinks may be put on 

* Vide Lord Chesterfield's Letters, Letter 220. 
tl Learn even to compose your countenance to the 
respectful, the cheerful, and the insinuating." 
Letter 221. " An air. a tone of voice, a com- 
posure of countenance to mildness and softness, 
which are all easily acquired, do the business; 
and without farther examination, and possibly 
with the contrary qualities, that man is reckoned 
the gentlest, the.modestest, the best natured man 
alive. Happy the man who with a certain fund 
of parts and knowledge gets acquainted with the 
world early enough to make it his bubble, at an 
age when most people are the bubbles of the 
world ! for that is the common case of youth." 



MRS. CHAPOrsE. Vo 

and adjusted at the glass, like the rouge and 
the bouquet ; and that his son may possess 
les mameres nobles, and all the charms of lib- 
eral and ingenuous youth, whilst in reality he 
regulates his * friendships by his views of fu- 
ture advancement ; f conceals every passion 
and sentiment of his own heart, and takes 
advantage of those of others ; whilst he sets 
no other bounds to his flattery, but those of 
the credulity of his companions, and lavishes 
every mark of attention and admiration, of 
kindness and good nature, with no other mo- 
tive or end but his own advantage. The fa- 
vourite maxim which his lordship so often re- 
peats, I" II volto sciolto, i pensieri streiti" he 

1 Vide Letters 140 and 207. 

t Vide Letter 151. In this Letter his lordship 
quotes, from Lord Bacon, the distinction between 
simulation and dissimulation ; '* the last of which 
is only to hide a man's own cards, wliereas simu- 
lation is put on in order to look into other peo- 
ple's." But does not the following account of 
his own management, which he recommends to 
his son as an example, come under the description 
of simulation f " I should desire nothing better in 
any negotiation, than to have to do with one of 
these men of warm, quick passions, which I 
would take care to set in motion. By artful 
provocations I would extort rash unguarded ex- 
pressions ; and, by hinting at all the several 
things I could suspect, infallibly discover the 
true one, by the alteration it occasioned in the 
countenance of the person." Is not this to look 
into another man's cards ? As a minister it may 
be able conduct, but as a man it is surely detestable 

t The countenance open, the thoughts close. 



16 WORKS OP 

thinks as practicable as it is convenient ; for- 
getting that an open countenance is the index 
nature gave to an open ingenuous heart; and 
that the bestteacher can hardly bring a youth 
of nineteen to such perfection in hypocrisy, 
as to give his face ana air the frankness propt- 
er to his age, and his mind the cunning and 
design of an old statesman. But, God be prais- 
ed ! we are not constituted to be the dupes 
of every shallow artifice ; and a hypocrite 
under twenty has very little chance of making 
" the world his 6w&feZe."* Scarcely even the 
weakest of that sex which his lordship consi- 
ders as far helow rationality,! would be much 
charmed with a youth who had been tutored 
by his father to make lovei wherever he went, 
because it was cheaper and safer to have an 
arrangement with a married woman of fash- 
ion, than to keep an opera girl. It is impos- 
sible to think of this in a moral light without 
a degree of horror, which obscures the ridi- 

* Vide note p. 9. 

\ Letter 129. 

$ Letter 242. " Address yourself to some wo- 
man of fashion and beauty wherever you are, and 
try how far that will go. If the place be not se- 
cured before hand, and garrisoned, nine times in 
ten you will take it." Sometimes his lordship 
directs him to address two at the same time ; one 
as a Mad. l'Ursay, to instruct him in the art of 
pleasing, the olhtr to exercise those arts upon. 
Mad. de Blot is chosen for this last office, on ac- 
count of her perverse fidelity to her iui=hand > 
'-' Iho" married above a.year. n 



mrs. chapone. 17 

cu\a of it. That such precepts should have 
been the instructions of a father to his son, 
and that they should be publicly offered to 
the youth of a nation where the sacredness 
of marriage and the bonds of family love 
are not yet entirely exploded, are indeed 
most alarming symptoms of corruption. The 
mean self-love, which is thus inculcated, at 
the expense of the most important interests of 
society, must show itself through the whole 
man, in spite of the frippery in which his 
lordship would dress him. Elegance of mind 
can alone produce true elegance of behaviour. 
Les manieres douces belong to a gentle and 
good heart ; les manieres nobles to a spirit of 
generosity, bravery, and truth. 

"■ Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow : 
u The rest is all but leather or prunella." Pope. 



ESSAY II. 

ON CONVERSATION. 

I have always considered the universal prac- 
tice of card-playing as particularly pernicious 
in this respect, that, whilst it keeps peoph: 
perpetually in company, it excludes conver- 
sation. The hours which are spent in 
society may be made, not only the most 
agreeable, but perhaps the most useful of 
any, provided our companions are well cho- 
sen. But though this cannot always be the 
r r 2 



18 WORKS OF 

case, and though few persons are qualified to 
make a figure in conversation, or to give it 
all the advantage of which it is capable, yet, 
oven amongst those of moderate understand- 
ing and knowledge, it seems almost impossi- 
ble that an evening should pass in mutual 
endeavours to entertain each other, without 
something being struck out that would in 
some degree enlighten and improve the mind. 
If we are not instructed by what we hear, 
we may at least derive some advantage from 
the exercise of our own powers, from being 
obliged to recollect and produce what we know 
or what we mink on the topics which arise; 
and whilst the understanding is thus kept, in 
action, though perhaps on subjects not very 
important, it is certainly more likely to acquire 
some vigour, than whilst its attention is con- 
fined to the management of a hand of cards. 
In the mean time our self-command may be 
improving by the exercise of politeness ; 
which teaches us to offer our favourite opin- 
ions with modesty, to hear them controverted 
with good-humour, and tomainlain them with 
moderation : to listen with patient attention 
to a tedious or a well known story ; to an- 
swer an objection that is nothing to the pur- 
pose, and make some civil reply to an argu- 
ment too confused to be understood. These 
are useful, though not very pleasant, exertions 
of benevolence and self-denial ; and such 
utility may be derived even from those who 
can no otherwise contribute to our improve- 
ment. Many more pleasi; § advantages one 
should expect to find in the company of per- 
sons of fashion and education. 



MRS. CHAPOM. 19 

But, alas! if one attends to the numerous 
abuses of conversation, and observes how of- 
ten it offends against some of the first princi- 
ples of molality, one is tempted to think 
that even card-playing, though it interests 
none bat the most unlovely passions, is a less 
dangerous method of employing time. 

Many are the natural temptations to offen- 
ces of the tongue, from which we are con- 
stantly in danger in all times and all places, 
But some of those which prevail in our pre- 
sent polite circles, seem to arise merely from 
the ton which has been imported to us from a 
neighbouring nation, where perhaps the same 
things may be natural and harmless, which, 
in us, are affected, and fruitful of bad conse- 
quences. Surely nothing can be less natural 
to the dry and reserved temper of the En- 
glish, than that flow of unbounded flattery 
which seems the established commerce of 
the grand monde, but which, to a modest 
mind, unhardened by the constant use of it, 
is really quite overwhelming. That deep and 
affecting interest, with which a mere com- 
mon acquaintance talks to you for half an 
hour of your slightest indisposition ; those 
tender professions of affection and esteem ; 
that admiration, which exhausts the language 
to express itself, are so exceedingly uncon- 
genial to an English heart (slow* to expand 
itself, though warm and steady in real affec- 
tion) that they never sit handsomely on us ; 
and, though we may be pleased at the mo- 
ment with the self-consequence given us, we 
soon feel a degree of disgust arising towards 
those from whom we receive it. 



£0 WORKS Of 

Another fashion, very inconvenient to a 
people naturally grave, is that of being always 
gay. Lively airs and diverting sallies are so 
essential in a fashionable company, that, if 
they cannot be kept up by harmless wit and 
humour, they must be produced by throwing 
an air of ridicule on the most important sub- 
jects, and the most respectable characters ; 
not excepting the principles we profess to 
believe, or the persons we profess to esteem. 

Thus, whilst we lavish our praise on those 
who are present (a practice which untaught; 
nature would blush at) we derive all our mirth 
from the absent, to whom we are not less li- 
beral of abuse and ridicule (an injustice which 
every honest peasant would scorn.) Some 
are even shameless enough to begin their ri- 
dicule on those who have just quitted the 
room, and whom they have been grossly flat- 
tering ; though it is so obvious, that the re- 
maining part of the company, after having 
been fatigued with bowing to their compli- 
ments, must expect the same fate in their 
turn, as their carriages drive from the door. 

Nothing is to me more disgusting than that 
air of mildness and benevolence with which 
some ill-natured observation on the person 
or dress of our absent acquaintance, or some 
sly sarcasm, designed to obscure the bright- 
est part of their character, is usually intro- 
duced. If the defects of a lady's person are 
to be held forth to ridicule, it is first remark- 
ed, that " she is certainly the best kind of 
woman in the world." If one of distinguish- 
ed talents is to be tli£ victim, those talents 



MRS, chapom:. £i 

are magnified and exalted in the strongest 
trrms, and then in a lower voice yon are call- 
ed upon to take notice of the conscious su- 
periority of her manner, the ostentatious 
display of her knowledge, or the pointed af- 
fectation of her wit. Some absurd saying, 
which envy Lad invented for her, is produced 
as a sample of her bans mots, and some trait 
of impertinence, though perhaps the most 
contrary to her character, related as a speci- 
men of her behaviour. When the lady * * * 5 
have been extolled for their charity and good- 
ness, I have heard it added, " that it is im- 
possible to pass through their hall without 
terrible consequences, 'tis so full of company 
from Broad St Giles's. Mrs. * * * * is con- 
fessedly the most pious creature upon earth ! 
poor soul ! she was carried to church in an 
ague-fit last Sunday ; for she thinks there is 
no going to heaven without hearing Mr. Such- 
a-one preach once a week." Thus, by the 
help of exaggeration, you may possibly suc- 
ceed in raising a sneer against a plain person, 
or a bright understanding; against christian 
beneficence, or rational piety ; but as you pro- 
fess the highest esteem for the characters you 
ridicule, nobody must say, that you are censo- 
rious or unfriendly. 

Another heinous evil arises from the neces- 
sity of being au fait, with regard to every 
character and occurrence that is talked of. 
The word and thing called sentiment being 
exploded as perfectly ridiculous, all discussion 
of general topics being formal, tedious, and 
insufferable; and literary subjects pedantic 
and affected, there remains nothing, when 



22 WORKS 01 

you have done with public affairs and public 
diversions, but private anecdotes, pulling 
down, or gently undermining characters, 
sitting in judgment on those transactions, 
which, though of a private nature, are, by 
the newly established custom of the times, 
laid before the public, or producing fresh ac- 
counts of them from private hands. I hardly 
ever heard a conversation of this kind carried 
on for half an hour, vvithout some flagrant 
instance of slander and injustice. Itis amaz- 
ing to observe the courage with which, upon 
mere common report, facts are repeated, 
which tend to the utter ruin of a character, 
and even motives confidently assigned, which 
it was impossible should be known. I have 
heard things asserted as indisputable truths, 
with the air of a person who was behind the 
curtain and knew the whole, which I have 
afterwards detected to have been taken on 
trust from the newspapers. 

The heaviest misfortunes will not shelter 
you from censure, when the conversation 
takes this turn. If you have lost your dear- 
est friend, we pity you indeed ; but we can- 
not help observing, either that you hare very 
little feeling, and do not grieve enough, or that 
you are highly blameable in feeling too much, 
and grieving too violently ; or else that there 
is something very ridiculous in j^our manner 
of showing your grief, or in some circum- 
stances of your behaviour under it. If you 
are stripped of your whole fortune, 'tis a ter- 
rible thing to be sure ; but it can't be dissem- 
bled, that your own imprudence was, in a 



MRS. CHAPONE. 23 

great measure, the cause of it. If distemper 
or accident has disfigured your face or dis- 
torted your limbs, we can't help being divert- 
ed with the oddness of your figure ; but, poor 
creature! we are excessively shocked and 
concerned at the same time. 

If all the evii-speaking one hears was to be 
esteemed the effect of malice, one might 
sometimes fancy one's self in the infernal 
regions ; but I sincerely believe, malice has 
very seldom any share in it: the desire of 
keeping up or enlivening genteel conversa- 
tion, with the want of rational knowledge, or 
the fear of being ridiculed for showing the 
knowledge Ave have, is the general cause of 
those injuries we do our fellow creatures in 
our common discourse. 

But if the desire of being fashionable leads 
to many immoralities, one would expect it 
should at least preserve us from such as of- 
fend no less against the laws of politeness, 
than against those of religion and virtue. It 
is the boast of this age to have discovered, 
that true politeness consists, not in modes and 
ceremonies, but in entering with delicacy into 
the feelings of our companions, conforming 
to their inclinations, exalting them in their 
own opinions, and relieving them as much 
as possible from every restraint and anxiety : 
but how ill are these maxims observed to- 
wards those who have not yet learned the 
fashionable indifference and levity on serious 
subjects ! A young person educated in reli- 
gious sentiments, and warm with the love of 
virtue, when first admitted into the circles of 



£4 WORKS OF 

persons of character, thinks he cannot better 
recommend himself, than by taking some op- 

Eortunity of expressing the sentiments he has 
een taught to revere : but how is he shocked 
and mortified, to find himself stared at and ri- 
diculed, his gravity answered with contemp- 
tuous smiles, or received with a general si- 
lence, the distressful effect of which can only 
be conceived by those who have fell it ! Sunk 
into the deepest confusion on finding himself 
so much too wise and good for his company, 
he soon determines no more to offend on that 
side : but would any of the most troublesome 
formalities of former ages have cost him a 
pain equal to this unmerited shame, or the 
constraint he must suffer in disguising his 
sentiments, and inuring himself to the ridicule 
and contempt of what he had been used to 
hold most sacred? The present pain inflicted 
on him is a cruel outrage on good manners ; 
but the consequences of it are far more inju- 
rious. Such an attack on a young man's sen- 
sibility is but too generally followed by the 
sacrifice of virtue to fashion ; and he gradu- 
ally adopts an air of disdain for all that should 
preserve him from corruption and ruin. 

Refinement of sentiment in a young lady 
too often meets with a like fate. She has not 
the courage to assume a superior elegance of 
mind to those she converses with, who would 
only laugh at her pretensions ; she must there- 
fore, on pain of being treated as a romance 
heroine, learn to debase the pure lustre of 
virgin delicacy and refined sensibility; she 
must adopt the worldly notions, and the free. 



MRS. CHAPONE. £3 

not to say licentious, manners of those who 
have already trod the round of public diver- 
sions, and have been hackneyed in the ways 
of the gay world ; till from copying their ex- 
ternal behaviour, she gradually reduces her 
mind to the same standard, and brings down, 
every high thought, every delicate and ingen- 
uous sentiment, with which books and edu- 
cation had inspired her, to the ton of unfeel- 
ing dissipation. 

Nor can we wonder that the modest timid- 
ity of youth should be thus borne down by 
the imposing air of the world, when we see 
that it has but too strong an effect even on 
well-principled and long-practised virtue. I 
believe I may appeal to the bosom of almost 
every man of religious principles, whose situ- 
ation has obliged him to converse much with 
the world, whether he has not found it one 
of his hardest trials, to stem the torrent of 
custom, and endure the ridicule which awaits 
the testimony he is bound to give in the cause> 
of religion and virtue. Has he never been 
tempted to suppress that testimony, and to 
incur the danger of countenancing, by not 
opposing, contrary notions, rather than ex- 
pose himself to suffer, or be obliged to resent, 
the contempt of those who esteemed them- 
selves polite company ; and who were really 
too well bred to have ridiculed his mistress, 
friend, or relation in his presence, though they 
could allow themselves to insult him on points 
still more interesting ? 

But, without formally attacking principles, 
the general tendency of conversation mu?t. 
B 9 



26 WORKS OP 

conduce either to weaken or establish them. 
The more remote the cause is from the effect, 
the less are we on our guard against it ; and 
the slowest method is perhaps the surest, to 
undermine religion and morality. 

When we are told by our great Master, that 
" of every idle word we must give an account 
at the day of judgment," it is not to be ima- 
gined that he meant to confine our common 
conversation to serious and important subjects, 
or to condemn that innocent trifling, which ne- 
cessarily makes so large a part of our commu- 
nication with each other : he says not, that eve- 
ry idle word shall be accounted a fault, but 
only that an account must be given of it ; that 
it shall be examined as to the tendency of it, 
whether it be good or bad, and as such be 
placed to the account of our good or evil 
conduct ; for there is no part of our conver- 
sation so insignificant, as not to be tinctured, 
in some degree, by our principles and dispo- 
sitions : none that has not some remote influ- 
ence on the cause of virtue. 

True religion gives an habitual sweetness 
and complacency, which produces genuine 
politeness, without injury to sincerity : it pre- 
serves the mind from every unfair bias, and 
inclines it to temper justice with mere) in all 
its judgments upon others : by regulating 
our self-love, it prevents our sacrificing to 
vanity the good fame of a fellow creature : it 
casts a pleasing light on every object, and in- 
spires an air of contentment, of thankfulness 
and joy, which raises the spirits and promotes 
sucli an innocent cheerfulness of convert 



MRS. CHAPONE. 27 

tion, as may well compensate for the loss of 
that mirth which is founded on ill nature : 
whilst superstition and irreligion equally dis- 
pose the mi od to gloomy and uncomfortable 
views ; to think hardly of persons and events ; 
to consider life as a scene of confusion, and 
mankind as made up of fools and knaves, 
who prey on each other, and aggravate the 
common load of miserj'. Under these me- 
lancholy impressions, men contrive, by attri- 
buting the best actions to selfish motives, to 
level all distinctions of character, and con- 
clude the whole race under one dreadful sen- 
tence ; a race which the superstitious-man 
considers as under the wrath of its Maker, 
and as the proper subject of never-ending 
misery ; while the infidel sees it under the 
less horrible, but dark and hopeless doom oi* 
annihilation : he perceives not a beneficent 
hand over-ruling the seeming disorders of 
this world, nor does his faint eye reach the 
distant prospect of immortal glor} r , which 
throws such an animating splendour on the 
whole scene of existence : his blessings are 
not heightened by gratitude, nor his suffer- 
ings mitigated by resignation ; even his mirth 
is infected with bitterness. Whilst we faugh 
with Voltaire at the most heightened repre- 
sentation of human wickedness and misery, 
disregarded bj' Heaven, and terminating in 
eternal darkness, surely we must forget, that 
we also are men, and that this shocking scene 
is the poor all of existence which his gloomy 
philosophy allots us. 



i28 WORKS OP 

The different views of things which arise 
from different opinions concerning the moral 

fovemment of trie world, and the end of our 
eing, cannot but affect the general tenor of 
conversation even on indifferent topics : a man 
may show the bent of his mind in talking of a 
comedy or a piece of news ; and the turn of 
thought he will introduce from these subjects 
will tend either to the improvement or corrup- 
tion of his hearers. 

If we accustom ourselves to reflect on the 
consequences of our words, and if we live 
under a sense of the duty of doing good to 
our fellow creatures, and of forbearing to 
hurt them in any manner or degree, we shall 
soon find to how great a sum of good or evil 
our daily expense of idle words may amount. 
When we are considering what are the means 
of doing good intrusted to us, perhaps the 
sphere of conversation is seldom thought of; 
yet surely it gives ample scope for the exer- 
tion of that active principle of beneficence in 
which true virtue consists ; and it is a sphere 
of action, from which no station or circum- 
stances can exclude us : there is not a man 
who drinks his pot of porter at the alehouse, 
but has somebody who looks up to his opin- 
ion, and whose manners and conduct may be 
influenced by his sentiments : how much then 
may be done by those whose understandings 
are held in any estimation among their ac- 
quaintance ! " A word spoken in season, how 
good is it !" what a deep and lasting impres- 
sion does it sometimes make ! especially from 
the lips of those whose rank, abilities, orattrac- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 29 

tfons give them particular consideration. On 
the other hand, what diffusive evil may take 
its rise from a slighting word, or even from a 
shrug, or a smile ! 

A young gentleman of my acquaintance 
has assured me, that he never received so 
much benefit from any sermon he ever heard, 
as from a reproof which he once received in 
conversation from a lady, who, when he had 
been talking on some subject rather licen- 
tiously, said " it is a sign you did not overhear 

what lord L said of you yesterday, or 

you would never utter such sentiments." 
The gentleman, when he told it to me, added. 
u Whoever could be insensible to the keenness 
of this reproof, and the flattering politeness 
with which it was tempered, must be flayed 
(as they say of a Russian) before he could be 
made to feel." Its influence on him has prob- 
ably continued to this day ; for 1 never knew 
h'»m give occasion for another reproof of the 
same nature. 

The great and irresistible influence, which 
the choice of our company, as well as the 
mode of our own conversation, has on our 
habits of thinking and acting, and on the 
whole form and colour of our minds, is a sub- 
ject too common to be much enlarged upon ; 
it cannot, however, be too deeply considered, 
as it seems the. leading circumstance of our 
lives, and that which may chiefly determine 
our character and condition to all eternity. 
ss2 



60 • WORKS OF 

ESSAY III. 

ON ENTHUSIASM, AND INDIFFERENCE IN RELIGION 

It is an old observation, that nothing is so 
difficult as to preserve the human affections in 
the due medium between opposite extremes. 
This is so remarkably true in our religious 
sentiments, that whoever examines his own 
heart will probably be convinced, that, in 
every part of his life, he has been led too far, 
either towards enthusiasm or indifference. 

I remember that when I was about fifteen 
years old, I was charmed with many of the 
doctrines of the Mystics. Disinterested love 
of God, contempt of ourselves, and indifference 
towards our own happiness, appeared to me 
essential to the true spirit of religion ; and 
such refinements on human nature were 
highly gratifying to my romantic turn of mind. 
I fancied myself exalted by these ideas to a 
high degree of perfection, and lamented and 
despised the unhappy state in which I had 
been before I became acquainted with these 
sublime religionists. But, as my reason 
gained strength, I discovered that there was 
no more reality in these my fancied senti- 
ments than in my dreams, and that the sen- 
sations I had produced in my own heart were 
as entirely the effect of imagination, as the 
distress I felt in seeing a tragedy. 

This self-delusion is common enough in 
many of the operations of our own minds, 
but perhaps in none more than in the ardours 
of devotion : which are often no other than 



MJR.S. CHAPONE. Si. 

the workings of a heated fancy, that, in a 
kind of frenzy, adds an unnatural force to 
our sentiments, and makes us undertake 
flights, of which human nature in its sober 
state is incapable. 

It is true, that we cannot possibly exceed 
in the measure of our love to God, to whom 
reason, as well as revelation, directs us to of- 
fer the best of our affections, and from whom 
alone we can hope for that happiness which 
it is our nature incessantly to desire. But we 
may fancy that we love him more than we 
do or can ; and measure that love, not by the 
rule himself has given us; by our obedience, 
and by our love to our fellow creatures ; but 
by the strength of those factitious feelings 
which we have the art of raising in ourselves, 
and which can naturally be excited only by 
the senses or the imagination. God cannot 
be the proper object of such feelings, since 
he is not present either to our senses or our 
imaginations. Of him we can have no idea, 
since all our ideas are introduced by our 
senses. We do indeed discover, by the de- 
ductions of reason, that there must be one 
self-existent Being possessing all perfection : 
we therefore accumulate all the good we are 
acquainted with, ascribing it to the Deity, 
with no other addition than the negation of 
all limits or imperfection. This we call an 
idea of God ; but it is not properly such, for 
we are incapable of representing to our minds 
at once all possible excellences, with infinity 
added to them. When we would contem- 
plate the Supreme Being, we must trace his 



32 WORKS OF 

attributes one by one ; and even thus we 
must gather from mere mortal things, our 
notions of those attributes. He is therefore 
the object and choice of our reason, rather 
than of our passions : and our contemplations 
of his divine perfections are rather fitted 
to produce sentiments of gratitude and re- 
verential love, like those we feel towards a 
worthy parent, than such strong desires and 
flaming raptures as the Mystics describe ; 
who borrow their expressions from the most 
sensual kind of love. This love of desire, as 
they distinguish it, they would appropriate 
solely to the purest of all spirits, and ieave 
for sensible objects only calm benevolence. 
Thus they undertake to change the nature 
our Maker has given us. They reject the 
title he has vouchsafed to take upon himself, 
of our father, and choose to style him their 
spouse, their lover. They profess to feast 
and inebriate themselves with his charms, 
whom they " neither have seen, nor can 
see," and of whom they can have no real 
idea ; and to shut their hearts against the at- 
tractions of all sensible objects. They even 
undertake a kind of separation from them- 
selves : they talk of self-annihilation, self- 
hatred, of being able to will their own eter- 
nal misery, if it should please God to will it ! 
in short, they enchant themselves with words 
void of meaning, and with suppositions which 
a sound mind is incapable of admitting for a 
moment. 

That the excellent Fenelon should have 
adopted such irrational expressions, would 



MRS. CHAPONE. S3 

be inconceivable, if we did not know that the 
richness and strength of such an imagination, 
and the warmth of such a heart as his, will 
naturally prevail over reason, and hurry a 
man into the regions of extravagance, when- 
ever his favourite object is in view. 

But whatever absurdities may arise from 
the fancied ardours of enthusiasm, they are 
much less pernicious to the mind than the 
contrary extreme of coldness and indiffer- 
ence in religion. The spirit of chivalry, 
though it led to many romantic enterprises, 
was nevertheless favourable to true courage, 
as it excited and nourished magnanimity and 
contempt of danger; which, though some- 
times wasted in a; .surd undertakings, were 
of the greatest use on real and proper oc- 
casions. The noblest energies of which we 
are capable can scarcely be called out with- 
out some degree of enthusiasm, in whatever 
cause we are engaged ; and those sentiments, 
which tend to *he exaltation of human na- 
ture, though they may often excite attempts 
beyond the human powers, will however pre- 
vent our stopping short of them, and losing, 
by careless indolence and self-desertion, the 
greatest part of that strength with which we 
really are endued. 

How common is it for those who profess 
(and perhaps sincerely) to believe with entire 
persuasion the truth of the gospel, to declare 
that they do not pretend to frame their lives 
according to the purity of its moral precepts ! 
" I hope," say they, " I am guilty of no great 
rnmes: but the customs of the world in 



34 WORKS OF 

these times will not admit of a conduct 
agreeable, either to reason or revelation. I 
know the course of life 1 am in is wrong ; 
I know that I am engrossed by the world ; 
that 1 have no time for reflection, nor for the 
practice of many duties which I acknowledge 
to be such. But I know not how it is ; I do 
not find that I can alter my manner of liv- 
ing." Thus they coolly and contentedly 
give themselves up to a constant course of 
dissipation, and a general worthlessness of 
character, which, I fear, is as little favour- 
able to their happiness here or hereafter, as 
the occasional commission of crimes at which 
they would start and tremble. The habitual 
neglect of all that is most valuable and im- 
portant, of children, friends, servants; of 
neighbours and dependants, of the poor ; of 
God, and of their own minds, they consider 
as an excusable levity, and satisfy themselves 
with laying the blame on the manners of the 
times. • *' 

If a modern lady of fashion was to be cal- 
led to account for the disposition of her time, 
I imagine her defence would run in this 
stvle : " I can't, you know, be outof the world, 
nor act differently from every body in it. 
The hours are every where late, conse- 
quently I rise late. I have scarce breakfasted 
before morning visits begin, or 'tis time to go 
to an auction, or a concert ; or to take a lit- 
tle exercise for my health. Dressing my hair 
is a long operation ; but one can't appear 
with a head unlike every body else. One 
must sometimes go to a play, or an opera : 



MRS. CHAPONE. 35 

though I own it hurries one to death. Then 
■what with necessary visits, the perpetual en- 
gagements to card parties at private houses ; 
and attendance on the public assemblies, to 
which all people of fashion subscribe, the 
evenings you see are fully disposed of. "What 
time then can I possibly have for what you 
call domestic duties ? You talk of the offices 
and enjoyments of friendship ; alas ! I have 
no hours left for friends ! I must see them in 
a crowd, or not at all. As to cultivating the 
friendship of my husband, we are very civil 
when we meet ; but we are both too much 
engaged to spend much time with each other. 
With regard to my daughters, 1 have given 
them a French governess, and proper mas- 
ters — I can do no more for them. You tell 
me, I should instruct my servants, but 1 have 
not time to inform myself, much less can I 
undertake any thing of that sort for them, or 
even be able to guess what they do with 
themselves the greatest part of the twenty- 
four hours. I go to church, if possible, once 
on a Sunday, and then some of my servants 
attend me ; and if they will not mind what 
the preacher says, how can I help it? The 
management or our fortune, as far as I am 
concerned, I must leave to the steward and 
housekeeper ; for I fi d I can barely snatch 
a quarter of an hour just to look over the bill 
of fare when I am to have company, that 
they may not send up any thing frightful or 
old fashioned. As to the christian duty of 
charity, I assure you I ara <> ill-natured; and 
(considering that the ^vr-at expense of being 



36 WOKKS OF 

always dressed for company, with losses at 
cards, subscriptions, and public spectacles, 
leave me very little to dispose of) I am ready 
enough to give my money when 1 meet with 
a miserable object. You say, I should in- 
quire out such, inform myself thoroughly of 
their cases, make an acquaintance with the 
poor of my neighbourhood in the country, 
and plan out the best methods of relieving 
the unfortunate, and assisting the industrious. 
But this supposes much more time, and much 
more money than I have to bestow. I have 
had hopes indeed that my summers would 
have afforded me more leisure ; but we stay 
pretty late in town ; then we generally pass 
several weeks at one or other of the water- 
drinking places, where every moment is spent 
in public ; and, for the few months in which 
we reside at our own seat, our house is al- 
ways full, with a succession of company, to 
whose amusement one is obliged to dedicate 
every hour of the day." 

So here ends the account of that time 
which was given you to prepare and educate 
yourself for eternity ? yet you believe the 
immortalitj of the soul, and a future state of 
rewards and punishments. Ask your own 
heart what rewards you deserve, or what 
kind of felicity you are fitted to enjoy ? 
Which of those faculties or affections, which 
heaven can be supposed to gratify, have you 
cultivated and improved ? If, in that eternal 
world, the stores of knowledge should be laid 
open before you, have you preserved that 
thirst of knowledge, or that taste for truth, 



Sirs, chapone. 57 

which is now to be indulged with endless in- 
formation ? If, in the society of saints and 
angels, the purest benevolence and most cor- 
dial love is to constitute your happiness, 
where is the heart that should enjoy this de- 
lightful intercourse of affection ? Has yours 
been exercised and refined to a proper capa- 
city of it during your state of discipline, by 
the energies of generous friendship, by the 
meltings of parental fondness, or by that 
union of heart and soul, that mixed exertion 
of perfect friendship and ineffable tender- 
ness, which approaches nearest to the full 
satisfaction 01 our nature, in the bands of 
conjugal love? Alas ! you scarce knew you 
had a heart, except when you feel it swell 
with pride, or flutter with vanity. Has your 
piety and gratitude to the Source of all good 
teen exercised and strengthened by constant 
acts of praise and thanksgiving? Was it 
nourished by frequent meditation, and silent 
recollection of all the wonders he hath done 
for us, till it burst forth in fervent prayer ? I 
fear it w r as rather decency than devotion that 
carried you once a week to the place of pub- 
lic worship, and, for the rest of the week, 
your thoughts and time were so very differ- 
ently filled up, that the idea of a Ruler of the 
Universe could occur but seldom, and then, 
rather as an object of terror than of hope 
and joy. How then shall a soul so dead to 
divine love, so lost to all but the most childish 
pursuits, be able to exalt and enlarge rtselfto 
a capacity of that bliss which we are allowed 

. T t 



33 Works of 

to hope for, in a more intimate perception of 
the divine presence, in contemplating more 
nearly the perfections of our Creator, and 
in pouring out before his throne our ardent 
gratitude, love, and adoration? What kind 
of training is the life you have passed through 
for such an immortality ? 

And dare you look down with contempt 
on those whom strong temptation from na- 
tural passion?, or a train of unfortunate cir- 
cumstances, have sunk into the commission 
of what you call great crimes'? Dare you 
speak peace to your own heart, because by 
different circumstances you have been pre- 
served from them ? Far be it from me to 
Wish to lessen the horror of crimes : but yet, 
as the temptations to these occur but seldom, 
whereas the temptations to neglect, and in- 
difference towards our duty for ever surround 
us, it may be necessary to awaken ourselves 
to some calculation of the proportions be- 
tween such habitual omission of all that is 
good, and the commission of more heinous 
acts of sin ; between wasting our whole life 
in what is falsely called innocent amusement, 
and disgracing it by faults which would alarm 
society more, though possibly they might 
injure it less. 

How amazing is the distance between the 
extreme of negligence and self indulgence in 
such nominal christians, and the opposite ex- 
cess of rigour which some have unhappily 
thought meritorious! between a Pascal (who 
dreaded the influence of pleasure so much, 
as to wear an iron, which he pressed into his 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 5Q 

side "whenever he found himself taking delight 
in any object of sense) and those who think 
life lent them only to be squandered in sense- 
less diversions, and the frivolous indulgence 
of vanity! what a strange composition is 
man ! ever diverging from the right line, for- 
getting the true end of his being, or widely 
mistaking the means that lead to it ! 

If it were indeed true, that the Supreme 
Being had made it the condition of our future 
happiness, that we should spend the days of 
our pilgrimage here on earth in voluntary 
suffering and mortification, and a continual 
opposition to every inclination of nature, it 
"would surely be worth while to conform even 
to these conditions, however rigorous : and 
we see, by numerous examples, that it is not 
more than human creatures are capable of, 
when fully persuaded that their eternal in- 
terests demand it. But if, in fact, the laws 
of God are no other than directions for the 
better enjoyment of our existence ; if he has 
forbid us nothing that is not pernicious, and 
commanded nothing that is not highly ad- 
vantageous to us ; if, like a beneficent parent, 
he inflicts neither punishment nor constraint 
unnecessarily, but makes our good the end 
of all his injunctions, it will then appear 
much more extraordinary that we should per- 
versely go on in constant and acknowledged 
neglect of those injunctions. 

Is there a single pleasure worthy of a ra- 
tional being, which is not, within certain limi- 
tations, consistent with, religion and virtue ? 
Apd are not the limits, withjn which w.e are 



40 wbRKS OF 

permitted to enjoy them, the same which 
are prescribed by reason and nature, and 
which we cannot exceed without manifest 
hurt to ourselves, or others ? It is not the 
life of a hermit, or a Pert dt la Trappt, that 
is enjoined us : it is only the life of a rational 
being, formed for societj', capable of con- 
tinual improvement, ana consequently of 
continual advancement in happiness. 

Sir Charles and Lady Worthy are neither 
gloomy ascetics nor frantic enthusiasts. They 
married from affection founded on long ac- 
quaintance and perfect esteem. They there- 
fore enjoy the best pleasures of the heart in 
the highest degree. They concur in a ra- 
tional scheme of life, which, whilst it makes 
them always cheerful and happy, renders 
them the friends of human kind, and the 
blessing of all around them. They do not 
desert their station in the world, nor deny 
themselves the proper and moderate use of 
their large fortune ; though that portion of it 
which is appropriated to the use of others, 
is that from which they derive their highest 
gratifications. They spend four or five 
months of every year in London, where 
they keep up an intercourse of hospitality 
and civility with many of the most respect- 
able persons of their own, or of higher rank ; 
but have endeavoured rather at a select than 
a numerous acquaintance ; and as they never 
play at cards, this endeavour has the mure 
easily succeeded. Three days in the week, 
from the hour of dinner, are given up to this 
intercourse with what may be called the 



MRS, CHAPOSE, 41 

world. Three more are spent in a family 
way, with a few intimate friends, whose 
tastes are conformable to their own, and with 
whom the book and working-table, or some- 
times music, supply the intervals of useful 
and agreeable conversation. In these parties 
their children are always present, and par- 
take of the improvement that arises from 
such society, or from the well chosen pieces 
which are read aloud. The seventh day is 
always spent at home, after the due atten- 
dance on public worship; and is peculiarly 
appropriated to the religious instruction of 
their children and servants, or to-other works 
of charity. As they keep regular hours, and 
rise early, and as Lady Worthy never pay.; 
or admits morning visits, they have seven or 
eight hours in every day free from all inter- 
ruption from the world, in which the culti- 
vation of their own minds, and those of their 
children, the due attention to health, to econ- 
omy, and to the poor, are carried on in the 
most regular manner. 

Thus, even in London, they contrive, with- 
out the appearance of quarrelling with the 
world, or of shutting themselves up from it, 
to pass the greatest part of their time in a 
reasonable and useful, as well as an agree- 
able manner. The rest of the year they 
spend at their family seat in the country, 
where the happy effects of their example, 
and of their assiduous attention to the good 
of all around them, are still more observable 
?han in town. Their neighbours, their ten- 
T t 2 



4£ works or 

ants, and the poor, for many miles about 
them, find hi them a sure resource and com- 
fort in calamity, and a ready assistant to 
every scheme of honest industry. The 
young are instructed at their expense, and 
under their direction, and rendered useful at 
the earliest period possible; the aged and the 
sick have every comfort administered that 
their state requires ; the idle and dissolute 
are kept in awe by vigilant inspection ; the 
quarrelsome are brought, by a sense of their 
own interest, to live more quietly with their 
family and neighbours, and amicably to refer 
their disputes to Sir Charles's decision. 

This amiable pair are not less highly pri- 
zed by the genteel families of their neigh- 
bourhood, who are sure of finding in their 
house the most polite and cheerful hospitali- 
ty, and in them a fund of good sense and good 
humour, with a constant disposition to pro- 
mote every innocent pleasure. They are par- 
ticularly tlie delight of all the young people,, 
who consider them as their patrons, and their 
oracles, to whom they always apply for ad- 
vice and assistance in any kind of distress, 
or in any scheme of amusement. 

Sir Charles and Lady Worthy are seldom 
without some friends in the house with them 
during their stay in the country ; but, as their 
methods are known, they are never broken 
m upon by their quests, who do not expect 
to see them till dinner-time, except at the 
hour of prayer and of breakfast. In their 
private walks or rides, they usually visit the 
cottages of the labouring poor, with all yf 



MRS. CIIAPONE. 43 

whom they are personalty acquainted; and 
by the sweetness and friendliness of their 
manner, as well as by their beneficent actions, 
they so entirely possess the hearts of these 
people, that they are made the confidants of 
all their family grievances, and the casuists 
to settle all their scruples of conscience or 
difficulties in conduct. By this method of 
conversing freely with them, they find out 
their different characters and capacities, and 
often discover and apply to their own benefit, 
as well as that of the person they distinguish, 
talents, which would otherwise have been 
for ever lost to the public. 
. From this slight sketch of their manner of 
living, can it be thought that the practice of 
virtue costs them any great sacrifices? Do they 
appear to be the servants of a hard master ? 
It is true, they have not the amusement of 
gaming, nor do they curse themselves in bit- 
terness of soul, for losing the fortune Provi- 
dence had bestowed upon them : they are 
not continually in public places, nor stifled in 
crowded assemblies ; nor are their hours con- 
sumed in an insipid interchange of unmean- 
ing chat with hundreds of fine people who 
are perfectly indifferent to them ; but then, in 
return, the Being whom they serve indulges 
them in the best pleasures of love, of friend- 
ship, of parental and family affection, of di- 
vine beneficence, and of a piety, which chief- 
ly consists in joyful acts of love and praise ! 
not to mention the delights they derive from 
a taste uncorrupted and still alive to natural 
pleasures j from the beauties of nature, and 



44 WORKS OF 

from cultivating those beauties joined with, 
utility in the scenes around them ; and, above 
all, from that flow of spirits, which a life ot 
activity, and the constant exertion of right 
affections naturally produce. Compare their 
countenances with those of the wretched 
slaves of <fce world, who are hourly compiam- 
in«- of fatigue, of listlessness, distaste, and 
vapours ; and who, with faded cheeks and 
worn-out constitutions, still continue to haunt 
the scenes where once their vanity found 
gratification, but where they now meet only 
with mortification and disgust: then tell mc 
which has chosen the happier plan, admit- 
ting for a moment that no future penalty was 
annexed to a wrong choice? Listen to the 
character that is given of Sir Charles Wor- 
thy and his lady, wherever they are named, 
and then tell me, whether even your idol, the 
world, is not more favourable to them than to 

y °Perhaps it is vain to think of recalling 
those whom long habits, and the established 
tyranny of pride and vanity, have almost 
precludedfrom a possibility of imitating such 
patterns, and in whom the very desire of 
amendment is extinguished; but for those 
who are now entering on the stage ot lite, 
and who have their parts to choose, how 
earnestly could I wish for the spirit of per- 
suasion? for such a " warning voice' as 
should make itself heard amidst all the gay 
bustle that surrounds them ! it should cry to 
them without ceasing, not to be led away by 
the crowd of fools, without knowing win- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 45 

ther they are going ; not to exchange real 
happiness for the empty name of pleasure ; 
not to prefer fashion to immortality ; and not 
to fancy it possible for them to be innocent, 
and at the same time useless. 



A LETTER 
ro THE ADVENTURER', 

THE STOKY OF FIDELIAS 

Peccare docenles 

Fallax hislorias monet. Hor. 

To tint th' attentive mind she tries 
Willi (ales of exemplary vice. 

TO THE ADVENTURER. 
SIR, 

I shall make no apology for the trouble I 
am about to give you, since I am sure the 
motives that induce me to give it will have as 
much weight with you as they have with me: 
I shall therefore, without further preface, re- 
late to you the events of a life, which, how- 
ever insignificant and unentertaining, affords 
a lesson of the highest importance ; a lesson, 
the value of which I have experienced, and 
may therefore recommend. 

I am the daughter of a gentleman of good 
family, who, as he was a younger brother, 

* The story of Fidelia made its first appear, 
ance in the Adventurer, Numbers 77, 7S ; 79. 



48 WORKS OF 

iuirchased, with the portion that was allotted 
lim, a genteel post under the government. 
My mother died when I was but twelve 
years old ; and my father, who was excessive- 
ly fond of me, determined to be himself my 
preceptor, and to take care that my natural 
genius, which his partiality made him think 
above the common rank, should not want the 
improvements of a liberal education. 

He was a man of sense, with a tolerable 
share of learning. In his youth he had been 
a free liver, and perhaps for that reason took 
some pains to become what is called a free-- 
thinker. But whatever fashionable frailties 
he might formerly have allowed in himself, he 
was now in advanced life, and had at least 
worldly wisdom enough to know, that it was 
necessary his daughter should be restrained 
from those liberties, which he had looked up- 
on as trifling errors in his own conduct. He, 
therefore, laboured with great application to 
inculcate in me the love of order, the beauty 
of moral rectitude, and the happiness and self- 
reward of virtue ; but at the same time pro- 
fessed it his design to free my mind from 
vulgar prejudices and superstition, for so he 
called revealed religion. As I was urged 
to choose virtue, and reject vice, from mo- 
tives which had no necessary connexion with 
immortality, I was not led to consider a fu- 
ture state either with hope or fear : my fa- 
ther, indeed, when I urged him upon that 
subject, always intimated that the doctrine of 
immortality, whether true or false, ought 
not at all to influence my conduct or interrupt 



MRS. CHAPOKE. ,J1J 

my peace ; because the virtue which secured 
happiness in the present state, would also 
secure it in a future : a future state, therefore, 
1 wholly disregarded, and, to confess a truth 
disbelieved: for I thought I could plainly 
discover that it was disbelieved by my father 
though he had not thought fit explicitly to 
declare his sentiments. As 1 had no very 
turbulent passions, a ductile and good dispo- 
sition, and the highest reverence for his un- 
derstanding, as well as the tenderest affection 
tor him, he found it an easy task to make me 
adopt every sentiment and opinion which he 
proposed to me as his own ; especially as he 
took care, to support his principles by the au- 
thority and arguments of the best writers 
against Christianity. At the age of twen- 
ty, 1 was called upon to make use of all the 
philosophy I had been taught, by his death ; 
which not only deprived me of a parent I 
most ardently loved, but with him of all fee 
ease and affluence to which I had been accus- 
tomed. His income was only for life, and he 
had rather lived beyond than within it : con- 
sequently, there was nothing left for me but 
the pride and helplessness of genteel life, a taste 
for every thing elegant, and. a delicacy and 
sensibility that has doubled all my sufferings. 
In this distress a brother of my mother's, who 
was grown rich in trade, received me into 
his house, and declared he would take the 
same care of me as if I had been his own 
child. W hen the first transports of my grief 
were abated, I found myself in an easy situ- 
ation, and, from the natural cheerfulness of 
uu 



50 WORKS OF 

my temper, I was beginning once more to 
taste of happiness. My uncle, who was a 
man of a narrow understanding and illiberal 
education, was a little disgusted with me for 
employing so much of my time in reading ; 
but still more so, when, happening to examine 
my books, he found by the titles that some 
of them were what he called blasphemy, and 
tended, as he imagined, lo make me an athe- 
ist. I endeavoured to explain my principles, 
which I thought it beneath the dignity of vir- 
tue to disguise or disavow ; but as 1 never could 
make him conceive any difference between a 
Deist and an Atheist, my arguments only 
served to confirm him in the opinion, that I 
was a wicked wretch, who, in his own phrase, 
believe neither God nor devil. As he was 
really a good man, and heartily zealous for 
the established faith, though more from ha- 
bit and prejudice than reason, my errors gave 
him great affliction : I perceived it with the 
utmost concern; I perceived, too, that he 
looked upon me with a degree of abhorrence 
mixed with pity, and that I was wholly in- 
debted to his good nature for that protection 
which I had flattered myself I should owe. to 
his Jove. I comforted myself, however, with 
my own integrity, and even felt a conscious 
pride in suffering this persecution from igno- 
rance and folly, only because I was superior 
to vulgar errors and popular superstition ; and 
that Christianity deserved these appella- 
tions, I was not more convinced by my fa- 
ther's arguments than my uncle's conduct, 
who, as his zeal was not according to know 1 



MRS. CIIAPONE. ol 

lodge, was by no means qualified to " adorn 
the doctrine" which he professed to believe. 
I had lived a few months under the painful 
sensibility of receiving continual benefits from 
a person whose esteem and affection I had 
lost, when my uncle one day came into my 
chamber, and after preparing me for some 
unexpected good fortune, told me, he had 
just had a proposal of marriage for me from 
a man to whom I could not possibly have 
any objection. He then named a merchant, 
with whom I had often been in company at his 
table. As the man was neither old nor ugly, 
had a large fortune, and a fair character, my 
uncle thought himself sufficiently authorized 
to pronounce as he did, that I could not pos- 
sibly have any objection to him. An objec- 
tion, however, I had, which I told my uncle 
was to me insuperable ; it was, that the per- 
son whom he proposed to me as the compan- 
ion, the guide and director of my whole life, 
to whom I was to vow not only obedience 
but love, had nothing in him that could ever 
engage my affection : his understanding was 
low, his sentiments mean and indelicate, and 
his manner unpolite and unpleasing. " What 
stuff is all this !" interrupted my uncle, " sen- 
timents indelicate! unpolite! his understand- 
ing, forsooth, not equal to your own ! Ah, 
child, if you had less romance, conceit, and 
arrogance, and more true discretion and pru- 
dence, it would do you more good than all 
the fine books you have confounded your 
poor head with, and what is worse, perhaps, 
ruined your poor soul. 1 own, it went a lit 



59 WORKS OF 



tie against my conscience to accept my honest 
friend's kind offer, and give him such a pagan 
for his wife. But how know I whether tne be- 
lieving husband may not convert the unbe- 
lieving wife ? As to your flighty objections, 
they are such nonsense, that I wonder you 
can suppose me fool enough to be deceived 
by them. No, child ; wise as you are, you 
cannot impose upon a man who has lived as 
manj r years in the world as I have. I see 
your motive ; you have some infidel libertine 
rake in your eye, with whom you would go 
headlong to perdition. But I shall take care 
not to have your soul to answer for as well 
as your person. Either I shall dispose of you 
to an honest man that may convert you, or 
you shall dispose of yourself how you please 
for me ; for I disclaim all further care or 
trouble about you: so I leave you to consi- 
der, whether or no the kindness I have shown 
you entitles me to some little influence over 
you, and whether you choose to seek pro- 
tection where you can find it, or accept or the 
happy lot Providence has cut out for you." 
He left me at the close of this fine har- 
angue, and I seriously set myself to consider, 
as he bade me, which of the two states he 
had set before me I ought to choose ; to sub- 
mit to a legal sort of prostitution, with the 
additional weight of perjury on my con- 
science, or to expose myself to all the dis- 
tresses of friendless poverty and unprotected 
youth. After some hours of deliberation, I 
determined on the latter, and that more from 
principle than inclination ; for though mj 



MRS. CHAPONE. 63 

delicacy would have suffered extremely in 
accepting a husband, at least indifferent to 
me ; yet as my heart was perfectly disengag- 
ed, and my temper naturally easy, I thought 
I could have been less unhappy in following 
my uncle's advice, than I might probably be 
by rejecting it : but then I must have sub- 
mitted to an action I could not think justifia- 
ble, in order to avoid mere external distresses. 
This would not have been philosophical. I 
had always been taught, that virtue was of 
itself sufficient to happiness : and that those 
things which are generally esteemed evils, 
could have no power to disturb the felicity of 
a mind governed by the eternal rule of right, 
and truly enamoured of the charms of moral 
beauty. 1 resolved, therefore, to run all 
risques, rather than depart from this glorious 
principle ; I felt myself raised by the trial, 
and exulted in the opportunity of showing 
my contempt of the smiles or frowns of for- 
tune, and of proving the power of virtue to 
sustain the soul under all accidental circum- 
stances of distress. 

I communicated my resolution to my un- 
cle, assuring him at the same time of my 
everlasting gratitude and respect, and that 
nothing should have induced me to offend or 
disobey him, but his requiring me to do what 
my reason and conscience disapproved ; that 
supposing the advantages of riches to be 
really as great as he believed, yet still those 
uu2 



54 WORKS OF 

of virtue were greater, and I could not re- 
solve to purchase the one by a violation oi' 
the other ; that a false vow was certainly 
criminal ; and that it would be doing an act 
of the highest injustice, to enter into so so- 
lemn an engagement without the power of 
fulfilling it ; that my affections did not de- 
pend on my own will; and that no man 
should possess my person, who could not 
obtain the first place in m) r heart. 

I was surprised that my uncle's impatience 
had permitted me to go on thus far; but 
looking in his face, I perceived that passion 
had kept him silent. At length the gather- 
ing storm burst over my head in a torrent of 
reproaches. My reasons were condemned as 
romantic absurdities, which I could not my- 
self believe ; I was accused of designing to 
deceive, and to throw myself away on some 
worthless fellow, whose principles were as 
bad as my own. It was in vain for me to as- 
sert that I had no such design, nor any incli- 
nation to marry at all ; my uncle could soon- 
er have believed the grossest contradiction, 
than that a young woman could so strenuous- 
ly refuse one man without being prepossess- 
ed in favour of another. As I thought myself 
injured by his accusations and tyranny, I 
gave over the attempt to mitigate his anger. 
He appealed to Heaven for the justice of his 
resentment, and against my ingratitude and 
rebellion ; and then giving me a note of fifty 
pounds, which he said would keep me from 
immediate indigence, he bade me leave his 
house, and see his face no more. I bowed in 
sign of obedience ; and collecting all my dig- 



MKS. CHAFONE. Jo 

nity and resolution, I arose, thanked him for 
his past benefits, and with a low courtesy left 
the room. 

In less than an hour I departed with my 
little wardrobe to the house of a person who 
had formerly been my father's servant, and 
who now kept a shop and let lodgings. From 
hence I went the next day to visit my father's 
nephew, who was in possession of the family 
estate, and had lately married a lady of great 
fortune. He was a young gentleman of good 
parts, his principles the same as my father's, 
though his practice had not been quite agree- 
able to the strict rules of morality : however, 
setting aside a few of those vices which are 
looked upon as genteel accomplishments in 
young fellows of fortune, I thought him a 
good sort of man ; and as we had always 
lived in great kindness, I doubted not that I 
should find him my friend, and meet with ap- 
probation and encouragement at least, if not 
assistance from him. 1 told him my story, 
and the reasons that had determined me to 
the refusal which had incurred my uncle's 
displeasure. But how was I disappointed, 
when, instead of the applause I expected for 
my heroic virtue, ana unmerited persecu- 
tions, I perceived a smile of contempt on his 
face, when he interrupted me in the following 
manner ! " And what, in the devil's name, my 
dear cousin, could make a woman of your sense 
behave so like an idiot? What ! forfeit all your 
hopes from your uncle, refuse an excellent 
match, and reduce yoursel f to beggary, because 
truly you were not in love? Surely, one might 
have expected better from you even at fil- 



56 WORKS OF 

teen. Who is it, pray, that marries the per- 
son of their choice ? For my own part, who 
have rather a better title to please myself, 
with a good fifteen hundred a year, than you 
who have not a shilling, I found it would not 
do, and that there was something more to be 
sought after in a wife than a pretty face or a 
genius. Do you think I cared three farthings 
for the woman I married ? No, faith. But 
her thirty thousand pounds were worth hav- 
ing ; with that I can purchase a seraglio of 
beauties, and indulge my taste in every kind 
of pleasure. And pray what is it to me whe- 
ther my wife has beauty, or wit, or elegance, 
when her money will supply me with all that 
in others ? You, cousin, had an opportunity 
of being as happy as I am : the men, believe 
me, would not like you a bit the worse for 
being married ; on the contrary, you would 
find, that for one who took notice of you as 
a single woman, twenty would be your ad- 
mirers and humble servants when there was 
no danger of being taken in. Thus you might 
have gratified all your passions, made an ele- 
gant figure in life, and have chosen out some 
gentle swain as romantic and poetical as you 
pleased for your Cecisbee. The good John 
Trott husband would have been easily man- 
aged, and " Here my indignation could 

be contained no longer, and I was leaving the 
room in disdain ; when he caught me by the 
hand; " Nay, prithee, my dear cousin, none 
of these violent airs. I thought you and I 
had known one another better. Let the poor 
souls, who are taught by the priests and their 



MRU. CH.APONE. i>7 

nurses to be afraid of hell-fire, and to think 
thev shall go to the devil for following nature 
ana making life agreeable, be as outrageously 
virtuous as they please: you have too much 
sense to be frightened at bugbears ; you know- 
that the term of our existence is but short; 
and it is highly reasonable to make it as plea- 
sant as possible." I was too angry to attempt 
confuting his arguments ; but bursting from 
his hold, told him, I would take care not to 
give him a second opportunity of insulting 
my distress, and affronting my understand- 
ing ; and so left his house with a resolution, 
never to enter it again.- 



THE STORY OF FIDELIA 



CONTINUED. 

Propter vitam vivendi perdere causas. Ju v . 

Nor quit for life, what gives to life its worth. 

I went home mortified and disappointed, 
My spirits sunk into a dejection, which took 
from me for many days all inclination to stir 
out of my lodging, or to see a human face. 
At length I resolved to try, whether indigence 
and friendship were really incompatible, 
and whether 1 should meet with the same 
treatment from a female friend, whose affec- 
tion had been the principal pleasure of my 
youth. Surely, thought I, the gentle Aman- 
ita, whose heart seems capable of every ten- 
der and generous sentiment, will do justice to 
the innocence and integrity of her unfortu- 
nate friend ; her tenderness will encourage 
my virtue and animate my fortitude, her 
praises and endearments will compensate all 
my hardships. Amanda was a single woman 
of a moderate independent fortune, which I 
heard she was going to bestow on a young 
officer, who had little or nothing besides his 
commission. 1 had no doubt of her appro- 



^Q WORKS OF 

bation of ray refusing a mercenary match,, 
since she herself had chosen from motives so 
opposite to those which are called prudent. 
She had been in the country some months, 
so that my misfortunes had not reached her 
ear till I myself related them to her. She 
heard me with great attention, and answered 
me with politeness enough, but with a cold- 
ness that chilled my very heart. "You are 
sensible, my dear Fidelia," said she, "that I 
never pretended to set my understanding m 
competition with yours, I knew my own 
inferiority ; and though many of your no- 
tions and opinions appeared to me very 
strange and particular, 1 never attempted to 
dispute them with you. To be sure, you 
know best ; but it seems to me a very odd 
conduct for one in your situation to give 
offence to so good an uncle ; first by main- 
taining doctrines which may be very true 
for aught I know, but which are very con- 
trary to the received opinions we are 
brought up in, and therefore are apt to 
shock a common understanding ; and sec- 
ondly, to renounce his protection, and throw 
yourself into the wide world, rather than 
marry the man he chose for you ; to Avhoni, 
after all, I do not find you had any real ob- 
jection, nor any antipathy for his person 
Antipathy, my dear! said 1; are there not 
many degrees between loving and honouring 
a man preferable to all others, and beholding 
him with abhorrence and aversion: The hrst 
is, in my opinion, the jl 'J. y of a wile, a duty 
volrnitarily takea upon herself, and engaged 



MRS. CHAPONE. 61 

in under the most solemn contract. As to 
the difficulties that may attend my friendless, 
unprovided state, since they are the conse- 
quences of a virtuous action, the) r cannot 
really be evils, nor can they disturb that hap- 
piness which is the gift of virtue. " I am 
heartily glad," answered she, "that you have 
found the art of making yourself happy by 
the force of imagination ! I wish your enthu- 
siasm may continue ; and that you may still 
be further convinced, by your own experi- 
ence, of the folly of mankind, in supposing 
poverty and disgrace to be evils." 

I was cut to the soul by the unkind manner 
which accompanied this sarcasm, and was 
going to remonstrate against her unfriendly 
treatment, when her lover came in with an- 
other gentleman, who, in spite of my full 
heart, engaged my attention, and for a while 
made me forget the stings of unkindness. 
The beauty and gracefulness of his person 
caught my eye, and the politeness of nis ad- 
dress, and the elegance of his compliments, 
soon prejudiced me in favour of his under- 
standing. He was introduced by the Cap- 
tain to Amanda as his most intimate friend, 
and seemed desirous to give credit to his 
friend's judgment, by making himself as 
agreeable as possible. He succeeded so well, 
that Amanda was wholly engrossed by the 
pleasure of his conversation, and the care of 
entertaining her lover and her new guest : her 
face brightened, andher.good humour return- 
ed. When I arose to leave her, she pressed 
me so earnestly to stay to dinner, that I 
w w 



62 WORKS OP 

could not, without discovering how much I 
resented her behaviour, refuse. This, how- 
ever, I should probably have done, as I was 
naturally disposed to show every sentiment 
of my heart, had not a secret wish arisen 
there to know a little more of this agreeable, 
stranger. This inclined me to think it pru- 
dent to conceal my resentment, and to ac- 
cept the civilities of Amanda. The conver- 
sation grew more and more pleasing ; I took 
my share in it, and had more than my share 
of the charming stranger's notice and atten- 
tion. As we all grew more and more unre- 
served, Amanda dropt hints in the course of 
the conversation relating to my story, my sen- 
timents, and unhappy situation. Sir George 
Freelove, for that was the young gentleman's 
name, listened greedily to all that was said 
of me, and seemed to eye me with earnest 
curiosity as well as admiration. We did not 
part till it was late, and Sir George insisted 
on attending me to my lodgings : I strongly 
refused it, not without a sensation which more 
properly belonged to the female than the phi- 
losopher, and which I condemned in myself 
as arising from dishonest pride. I could not 
without pain suffer the polite Sir George, 
upon so short an acquaintance, to discover 
the meanness of my abode. To avoid this, 
I sent for a chair ; but was confused to find 
that Sir George and his servants prepared to 
attend it on foot by way of guard : it was in 
vain to dispute ; he himself walked before, 
and his servants followed it. I was covered 
with blushes, when, after all this parade, he 



MRS. CHAPONE. 6S 

handed me in at the little shop door, and took 
leave with as profound respect as if he had 
guarded me to a palace. A thousand different, 
thoughts kept me from closing my eyes that 
night. The behaviour of Amanda wounded 
me to the soul : I found that I must look on 
her as no more than a common acquaintance : 
and that the world did not contain one per- 
son whom I could call my friend. My heart 
felt desolate and forlorn ; I knew not what 
course to take for my future subsistence ; the 
pain which my pride had just given me, con- 
vinced me that I was far from having con- 
quered the passions of humanity, and that 
I should feel too sensibly all the mortifications 
which attend on poverty. I determined, 
however, to subdue this pride, and called to 
my assistance the examples of ancient sages 
and philosophers, who despised riches and 
honours, and felt no inconveniences from the 
malice of fortune. I had almost reasoned 
myself into a contempt for the world, and 
fancied myself superior to its smiles or 
frowns, when the idea of Sir George Free- 
love'rushed upon my mind, and destroyed at 
once the whole force of my reasoning. I 
found that however I might disregard the rest 
of the world, I could not be indifferent to his 
opinion ; and the thought of being despised 
by him was insupportable. I recollected 
that my condition was extremely different 
from that of an old philosopher, whose rags, 
perhaps, were the means of gratifying his 
pride, by attracting the notice and respect of 



64 WORKS OP 

mankind : at least, the philosopher's schemes 
and wishes were very different from those 
which at that time were taking possession of 
my heart. The looks and behaviour of Sir 
George left me no douht that I had made as 
deep an impression in his favour as he had 
done in mine. I could not bear to lose the 
ground I had gained, and to throw myself 
into a state below his notice. I scorned 
the thought of imposing on him with re- 
gard to my circumstances, in case he should 
really have had favourable intentions for 
me ; yet to disgrace myself for ever in 
his eye, by submitting to servitude, or any 
low way of supporting myself, was what I 
could not bring myself to resolve on. 

In the midst of these reflections I was sur- 
prised the next morning by a visit from Sir 
George. He made respectful apologies for the 
liberty he took ; told me he had learnt, from 
my friend, that the unkindness and tyranny 
of an uncle had cast me into uneasy circum- 
stances ; and that he could not know that so 
much beauty and merit were so unworthily 
treated by fortune, without earnestly wishing 
to be the instrument of doing me more jus- 
tice. He entreated me to add dignity and 
value to his life, by making it conducive to 
the happiness of mine ; and was going on 
with the most fervent offers of service, when 
I interrupted him by saying, that there was 
nothing in his power that I could with hon- 
our accept, by which my life could be made 
happier, but that respect which was due to 
me as a woman and a gentlewoman, and 



MRS. CIIArONE. C5 

■which ought to have prevented such offers of 
service from a stranger, as could only be jus- 
tified by a long experienced friendship ; that 
I was not in a situation to receive visits, and 
must decline his acquaintance, Avhich, never- 
theless, in a happier part of my life, would 
have given me pleasure. 

He now had recourse to all the arts of his 
sex, imputing his too great freedom to the 
force of his passion, protesting the most in- 
violable respect, and imploring on his knees, 
and even with tears, that I would not punish 
him so severely as to deny him the liberty of 
seeing me, and making himself more and 
more worthy of my esteem. My weak heart 
was but too* much touched by his artifices, 
and I had only just fortitude enough to per- 
severe in refusing his visits, and to insist on 
his leaving me, which at last he did ; but it 
was after such a profusion of tenderness, 
prayers, and protestations, that it was some 
time before I could recall my reason enough 
to reflect on the whole of his behaviour, and 
on my own situation, which compared, left 
me but little doubt of his dishonourable 
views. 

I determined never more to admit him to 
my presence, and accordingly gave orders to 
be denied if he came again. My reason ap- 

{)lauded, but my heart reproached me, and 
leavily repined at the rigid determination 
of prudence. I knew that I acted rightly, and 
I expected that that consciousness would 
make me happy ; but I found it otherwise ; 1 
was wretched beyond what I had ever felt 
w w % 



tj'6 WORKS OF 

or formed any idea of; I discovered that my 
heart was entangled in a passion which must 
for ever be combated, or indulged at the ex- 
pense of virtue. I now considered riches as 
truly desirable, since they would have placed 
me above disgraceful attempts, and given me 
reasonable hopes of becoming the wife of 
Sir George Freelove. I was discontented 
and unhappy, but surprised and disappointed 
to find myself so, since hitherto I had no one 
criminal action to reproach myself with ; on 
the contrary, my difficulties were all owing 
to my regard for virtue. 

I resolved, however, to try still farther the 
power of virtue to confer happiness, to go 
on in my obedience to her laws, and patient- 
ly wait for the good effects of it. But I had 
stronger difficulties to go through than any I 
had yet experienced. Sir George was too 
much practised in the arts of seduction to 
be discouraged by a first repulse : every day 
produced either some new attempt to see 
me, or a letter full of the most passionate 
protestations and entreaties for pardon and 
Favour. It was in vain I gave orders that 
no more letters should be taken in from him ; 
he had so many different contrivances to 
convey them, and directed them in hands so 
unlike, that I was surprised into reading them 
contrary to my real intentions. Every time 
I stirred out he was sure to be in my way, 
and to employ the most artful tongue that 
ever ensnared the heart of woman, in blind- 
ing my reason and awakening my passions. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 07 

1*1 y virtue, however, did not yet give way, 
hut my peace of mind was utterly destroyed. 
Whenever I was with him, I summoned all 
my fortitude, and constantly repeated my 
commands that he should avoid me. His 
disobedience called for my resentment, and, 
in spite of my melting heart, I armed my 
eyes with anger, and treated him with as 
much disdain as I thought his unworthy de- 
signs deserved. But the moment he left me, 
all my resolution forsook me. I repined at 
my fate : I even murmured against the 
Sovereign Ruler of all things, for making 
me subject to passions which I could not sub- 
due, yet must not indulge : I compared my 
own situation with that of my libertine cou- 
sin, whose pernicious arguments I had heard 
with horror and detestation, who gave the 
reins to every desire, whose house was the, 
seat of plenty, mirth, and delight, whose face 
was ever covered with smiles, and whose 
heart seemed free from sorrow and care. 
Is not this man, said I, happier than I am ? 
And if so, where is the worth of virtue ? 
Have I not sacrificed to her my fortune and 
my friends ? Do I not daily sacrifice to her 
my darling inclination ? Yet what is the com- 
pensation she offers me ? What are my pros- 
pects in this world but poverty, mortification, 
disappointment and grief? Every wish of my 
heart denied, every passion of humanity 
combated and hurt, though never conquered ? 
Are these the blessings with which Heaven 
distinguishes its favourites ? Can the King of 
Heaven want power or will to distinguish 



68 WORKS O* 

them? or does he leave his wretched crea- 
tures to be the sport of chance, the prey of 
wickedness and malice ? Surely, no. Yet is 
not the condition of the virtuous often more, 
miserable than that of the vicious ? I myself 
have experienced that it is. I am very un- 
happy, and see no likelihood of my being 
otherwise in this world — and all beyond the 
grave is eternal darkness. Yet why do I say, 
that I have no prospect of happiness ? Does 
not the most engaging of men offer me all 
the joys that love and fortune can bestow ? 
Will not he protect me from every insult of 
the proud world that scoffs at indigence? Will 
not his liberal hand pour forth the means of 
every pleasure, even of that highest and tru- 
est of all pleasures, the power of relieving the 
sufferings of my fellow creatures, of changing 
the tears of distress into tears of joy and grat- 
itude, of communicating my own happiness to 
all around me ! Is not this a state far preferable 
to that in which virtue has placed me ? 
But what is virtue ? Is not happiness the lau- 
dable pursuit of reason ? Is it not then laud- 
able to pursue it by the most probable means ? 
Have I not been accusing Providence of 
unkindness, whilst I myself only am in fault, 
for rejecting its offered favours? Surely, I 
have mistaken the path of virtue : it must be 
that which leads to happiness. The path 
which I am in is full of thorns and briars, and 
terminates in impenetrable darkness ; but I 
see another that is strowed with flowers, and 



MRS. CHAFONE. gj> 

hri rht with the sunshine of prosperity : this 
surely, is the path of virtue, and the road to 
happiness. Hither then let me turn mv wea- 
ry steps, nor let vain and idle prejudices* fright 
me from felicity. It is surely impossible that 
I should offend GOD, by yielding to a temp- 
tation which he has given me no motive to 
resist. He has allotted me a short and pre- 
carious existence, and has placed before me 

?£? d and evil * What is £° od but Pleasure 9 
What is evil but pain ? Reason and nature 
direct me to choose the first, and avoid the 
last. I sought for happiness in what is called 
virtue, but I found it not: shall I not try the. 
othe r experiment, since I think I can hardly 
be more unhappy by following inclination, 
than I am by denying it? 

Thus had my frail thoughts wandered into 
a wilderness of error, and "thus had I almost 
reasoned myself out of every principle of 
morality, by pursuing through all their conse- 
quences the doctrines which had been taught 
me as rules of life and prescriptions for feli- 
C . lty T"i i ta,isman s of Truth, by which I 
should be secured in the storms of adversity 
and listen without danger to the syrens of 
temptation— when in the fatal hour of my 
presumption, sitting alone in my chamber, 
collecting arguments on the side of passion 
almost distracted with doubts, and phmeine 
deeper and deeper into falsehood, I saw Sir 
George b reelove at my feet, who had gained 
admittance, contrary to my orders, by cor- 
ruph-.g my landlady. Ft is not necessary to 
describe to you his arts, or the weak efforts 



70 works or 

of that virtue which had been graciously im- 
planted in my heart, but which I had taken 
impious pains to undermine by false reason- 
ing, and which now tottered from the founda- 
tion : suffice it that I submit to the humilia- 
tion I have so well deserved, and tell you, 
that, in all the pride of human reason, 1 da- 
red to condemn, as the effect of weakness 
and prejudice, the still voice of conscience, 
which would yet have warned me from ruin; 
that my innocence, my honour, was the 
sacrifice to passion and sophistry; that "my 
boasted philosophy, and too much flattered 
understanding, preserved me not from the 
lowest depth of infamy, which the weakest 
of my sex with humility and religion would 
have avoided. . 

I now experienced a new kind ot wretcn- 
edness. My vile seducer tried in vain to 
reconcile me to the shameful life to Avhich 
he had reduced me, by loading me with fine- 
ry, and lavishing his fortune in procuring 
me pleasures which I could not taste, and 
pomp which seemed an insult on my 
disgrace. In vain did I recollect the argu- 
ments which had convinced me of the law- 
fulness of accepting offered pleasures, and 
following the dictates of inclination: the 
light of my understanding was darkened, 
but the sense of guilt was not lost. My 
pride and my delicacy, if, criminal as I was, 
I may dare to call it so, suffered the most 
intolerable mortification and disgust, eve- 
ry time I reflected on my infamous, situa- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 71 

tion. Every eye seemed to upbraid me, 
even that of my triumphant seducer. O 
depth of misery ! to be conscious of deser- 
ving the contempt of him I loved, and for 
whose sake I was become contemptible to 
mvscTf. 



THE STORY OF FIDELIA. 



COxVCLUDED. 



Quisnam igitur liber f Sapiens: sibi qui imperiosus ; 
Quern neque pauperies, neque mors, neque vinculo. 

terrent : 
Jtesponsare cupidinibus, contemnere honores 
Fortis, et inseipso totus*: teres atque rolundus, 
Externi ne quid valeai perlceve morari. Hor. 



Who then is free ? The wise, who well maintains 
An empire o'er himself: whom neither chains, 
Nor want, nor death, with slavish fear inspire ; 
Who boldly answers to his warm desire ; 
Who can ambition's vainest gifts despise ; 
Firm in himself who on himself relies; 
Polish'd and round who runs his proper course, 
And breaks misfortune with superior force. 

Francis. 



This was the state of my mind during a 
year which I passed in Sir George's house. 
His fondness was unabated for eight months 
of the time ; and as 1 had no other object to 
share my attention, neither friend nor rela- 
tion to call off any part of my tenderness, all 
x x 



74 WORKS OF 

the love of a heart naturally affectionate cen- 
tred in him. The first dawnings of unkind- 
ness were hut too visible to my watchful 
eyes. I had now all the torments of jealousy 
to endure, till a cruel certainty put an end to 
them. I learnt, at length, that my false lover 
was on the brink of marriage with a lady of 
great fortune. I immediately resolved to 
leave him ; but could not do it without first 
venting my full heart in complaints and re- 
proaches. This provoked his rage, and drew 
on me insolence, which though I had deserv- 
ed, I had not learnt to bear. I returned, with 
scorn which no longer became me, all the 
wages of my sin, and the trappings of my 
shame, and left his house in the bitterest an- 
guish of resentment and despair. 

1 returned to my old lodgings : but unable 
to bear a scene which recalled every circum- 
stance of my undoing, ashamed to look in 
the face of any creature who had seen me in- 
nocent, Avretched in myself, and hoping from 
change of place some abatement of my mis- 
ery, I put myself into a post-chaise, at two 
in the morning, with orders to the driver to 
carry me as far from town as he could before 
the return of night, leaving it to him to choose 
Hie road. 

My reason and my senses seemed benumb- 
ed and stupified during my journey. I made 
no reflections on what I was about, nor for- 
med any design for my future life. When 
night came, my conductor would have 
stopped at a large town, but I bid him go on 
to the next village. There I alighted at a 



MRS. CHAPONE. 7;> 



paltry inn, and dismissed my vehicle, with- 
out once considering Avhat I was to do with 
myself, or why I chose that place for my 
abode. To say truth, 1 can give no account 
of my thoughts at this period of time : they 
were all confused and distracted. A short 
frenzy must have filled up those hours, 
of wliich my memory retains such imperfect 
traces. I remember only, that without hav- 
ing pulled off my clothes, I left the inn as 
isoon as I saw the day, and wandered out of 
the village. 

My unguided feet carried me to a range 
of willows by a river's side, where, after hav- 
ing walked some time, the freshness of the 
air revived my senses, and awakened my rea- 
son. My reason, my memory, my anguish 
and despair, returned together ! Every cir- 
cumstance of my past life was present to my 
mind; but most the idea of my faithless lo- 
ver and my criminal love tortured my imagi- 
nation, and rent my bleeding heart, which, in 
spite of all its guilt and all its wrongs, retain- 
ed the tenderestand most ardent affection for 
its undoer. This unguarded affection, which 
was the effect of a gentle and kind nature, 
heightened the anguish of resent ment, and 
completed my misery. In vain did I call off 
my thoughts from this gloomy retrospect, and 
hope to tinda gleam of comfort in my future 
prospects. They were still more dreadful : 
poverty, attended by infamy and want, groan- 
ing under the cruel hand of oppression and 
the taunts of insolence, was before my eyes. 
I., who had once been the darling and the 



76 WORKS OF 

pride of indulgent parents, who had once 
been beloved, respected, and admired, was 
now the outcast of human nature, despised 
and avoided by all who had ever loved me, 
by all whom I had most loved ! hateful to 
myself, belonging to no one, exposed to 
wrongs and insults from all ! 

I tried to find out the cause of this dismal 
change, and how far I was myself the occa- 
sion of it. My conduct with respect to 
Sir George, though I spontaneously con- 
demned, yet, upon recollection, I thought the 
arguments which produced it would justify. 
But as my principles could not preserve me 
from vice, neither could they sustain me in 
adversity : conscience was not to be pervert- 
ed by the sophistry which had beclouded my 
reason. And if any, by imputing my con- 
duct to error, should acquit me of guilt, let 
them remember, it is yet true, that in this 
uttermost distress, I was neither sustained 
by the consciousness of innocence, the exul- 
tation of virtue, nor the hope of reward •« 
whether I looked backward or forward, all 
was confusion and anguish, distraction and 
despair. I accused the Supreme Being of 
cruelty and injustice, who, though he gave 
me not sufficient encouragement to resist de- 
sire, yet punished me with the consequences 
of indulgence. If there is a God, cried I, he 
must be either tyrannical and cruel, or regard- 
less of his creatures. I will no longer endure 
a being which is undeservedly miserable, 
either from chance or design, but fly to that 
annihilation in which all my prospects terr 



MRS. CHAPONE. 77 

minate. Take back, said I, lifting my eyes 
to heaven, the hateful gift of existence, and 
let my dust no more be animated to suffering, 
and exalted to misery. 

So saying, I ran to the brink of the river, 
and was going to plunge in, when the cry of 
some person very near me made me turn my 
eyes to see whence it came. I was accosted 
by an elderly clergyman, who, with looks of 
terror, pity, and benevolence, asked what I was 
about to do ? At first I was sullen, and re- 
fused to answer him ; but by degrees the 
compassion he showed, and the tenderness 
with which he treated me, softened my heart, 
and gave vent to my tears. 

"O! Madam," said he, "these are gra- 
cious signs, and unlike those which first drew 
my attention, and made me watch you unob- 
served, fearing some fatal purposein your mind. 
What must be the thoughts which could 
make a face like yours appear the picture of 
horror ? I was taking my morning walk, and 
have seen you a considerable time; some- 
times stopping and wringing your hands, 
sometimes quickening your pace, and some- 
times walking slow, with your eyes fixed on 
the ground, till you raised them to heaven, 
with looks not of supplication and piety, but 
rather of accusation and defiance. For pity 
tell me how is it that you have quarrelled 
with yourself, with life, nay even with Hea- 
ven ? Recal your reason, and your hope, and 
let this seasonable prevention of your fatal 
purpose be an earnest to you of good things 
to come, of GOD's mercy not yet alienated 
x x 2 



78 woiiks or 

from you, and stooping, from his throne to 
save your soul from perdition." 

The tears which flowed in rivers from my 
eyes while he talked, save me so much re- 
lief, that I found myself able to speak, and 
desirous to express my gratitude for the good 
man's concern for me. It was so long since 
I had known the joys of confidence, that I 
felt surprising comfort and pleasure from un- 
burdening my heart, and telling my kind de- 
liverer every circumstance of my story, and 
every thought of rny distracted mind. He 
shuddered to hear me upraid the Divine 
Providence ; and stopping me short, told 
me, he would lead me to one who should 
preach patience to me, whilst she gave me 
the example of it. 

As we talked he led me to his own house, 
and there introduced me to his wife, a middle- 
aged woman, pale and emaciated, but of a 
cheerful placid countenance, who received me 
with the greatest tenderness and humanity. 
She saw 1 was distressed, and her compassion 
was beforehand with my complaints. Her 
tears stood ready to accompan}^ mine ; her 
looks and her voice expressed the kindest 
concern : and her assiduous cares demonstra- 
ted that true politeness and hospitality, which 
is not the effect of art but of inward benev- 
olence. While she obliged me to take some 
refreshment, her husband gave her a short 
account of my story, and of the state in 
which he had found me. " This poor lady," 
said he, " from the fault of her education and 
principles, sees every thing through a gloomy 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 79 

medium : she accuses Providence, and 
hates her existence, for those evils which are 
the common lot of mankind in this short state 
of trial. You, my dear, who are one of the 
greatest sufferers I have known, are best 
qualified to cure her of her faulty impatience ; 
and to convince her, by your own example, 
that this world is not the place in which vir- 
tue is to find its reward, she thinks no;one so 
unhappy as herself; but if she knew all that 
you have gone through, she would surely be 
sensible, that if you are happier than she, it 
is only because your principles are better." 

" Indeed, my dear madam," said she, " that 
is the only advantage I have over you ; but 
that indeed outweighs every thing else. It is 
now but ten days since I followed to the 
grave my only son, the survivor of eight 
children, who were all equally the objects of 
my fondest love. My heart is no less tender 
than your own, nor my affections less warm. 
For a whole year before the death of my last 
darling, I watched the fatal progress of his 
disease, and saw him suffer the most amazing 
pains. Nor was poverty, that dreaded evil 
to which you could not submit, wanting to 
my trials. Though my husband is by his 
profession a gentleman, his income is so small, 
that I and my children have often wanted ne- 
cessaries : and though I had always a weakly 
constitution, I have helped to support my 
family by the labour of my own hands. At 
this time 1 am consuming by daily tortures, 
with a cancer which must shortly be my 
death. My pains, perhaps, might be mitiga 



GO WORKS OF 

ted by proper assistance, though nothing 
could preserve my life ; but I have not the 
means to obtain that assistance." O hold, 
interrupted I, my soul is shocked at the enu- 
meration of such intolerable sufferings. How 
is it that you support them ? Why do I not 
see you, in despair like mine, renounce your 
existence, and put yourself out of the reach 
of torment? But above all, tell me how it is 
possible for you to preserve, amidst such 
complicated misery, that appearance of cheer- 
fulness and serene complacency which shines 
so remarkably in your countenance, and ani- 
mates every look and motion ? 

" That cheerfulness and complacency," 
answered the good woman, " I feel in my 
heart. My mind is not only serene, but of- 
ten experiences the highest emotions of joy 
and exultation, that the brightest hopes can 
give-" And whence, said I, do you derive 
this astonishing art of extracting joy from 
misery, and of smiling amidst all the terrors 
of pain, sorrow, poverty and death ? She was 
silent a moment ; then stepping to her clos- 
et, reached a Bible, which she put into my 
hands. " See there," said she, " the volume 
in which I learn this art. Here I am taught, 
that everlasting glory is in store for all who 
will accept it upon the terms which Infinite 
Perfection has prescribed; here I am 
promised consolation, assistance, and support 
from the LoRn of Life ; and here I am as- 
sured that my transient afflictions are only 
meant to fit me for eternal and unspeakable 
happiness. This happiness is at hand. The 






MRS. CHAPONE. 81 

short remainder of my life seems but a point, 
beyond which opens the glorious prospect of 
immortality. Thus encouraged, now should 
I be dejected ? Thus supported, how should 
I sink ? With such prospects, such assured 
hopes, how can I be otherwise than happy ?" 

While she spoke, her eyes sparkled, and 
her whole face seemed animated with joy. 
I was struck with her manner, as well as her 
words. Every syllable she uttered seemed 
to sink into my soul, so that 1 never can for- 
get it. I resolved to examine a religion, which 
was capable of producing such effects as I 
could not attribute either to chance or error. 
The good couple pressed me with so much 
unaffected kindness, to -.make their little par- 
sonage my asylum till I could better dispose 
of myself, that I accepted their offer. Here, 
with the assistance of the clergyman, who is 
a plain, sensible, and truly pious man, I have 
studied the Holy Scriptures, and the evi- 
dences of their authority. But after reading 
them with candour and attention, I found all 
the extrinsic arguments of their truth super- 
fluous. The excellency of their precepts, 
the consistency of their doctrines, and tbfi 
glorious motives and encouragements to vir- 
tue which they propose, together with the 
striking example I nad before mv eyes of 
their salutary effects, left me no doubt of their 
divine authority. 

During the time of my abode here, I have, 
been witness to the more than heroic, the joy- 
ful, the triumphant death of the dear good wo- 
man. With as much softness and tenderness 



S2 WORKS OF 

as ever I saw in a female character, she show- 
ed more dauntless intrepidity than the stern- 
est philosopher or the proudest hero. No 
torment could shake the constancy of her 
soul, or length of pain wear out the strength 
of her patience. Death was to her an object 
not of horror but of hope. When I heard her 
pour forth her last breath in thanksgiving, and 
saw the smile of ecstasy remain on her pale 
face when life was fled, I could not help cry- 
ing out in the beautiful language I had lately 
learned from the Sacred Writings, " O 
death ! where is thy sting ? O Grave ! where 
is thy victory ?" 

I am now preparing to leave my excellent 
benefactor, and get my bread in a service, to 
which he has recommended me in a neigh- 
bouring family. A state of servitude, to 
which once I could not resolve to yield, ap- 
pears no longer dreadful to me ; that pride, 
which would have made it galling, Christi- 
anity has subdued, though philosophy at- 
tempted it in vain. As a penitent, I should 
gratefully submit to mortification ; but as a 
Christian, I find myself superior to every 
mortification, except the sense of guilt. This 
has humbled me to the dust : but the full as- 
surances, that are given me by the Saviour 
of the World, of the Divine pardon and 
favour upon sincere repentance, have calmed 
my troubled spirit, and filled my mind with 
peace and joy, which the world can neither 
give nor take away. Thus, without any 
change for the better in my outward circum- 
stances, I find myself changed from a dis- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 83 

tractcd, poor, despairing wretch, to a eontent- 
rd, happy, grateful heing; thankful for, and 
pleased with my present state of existence, 
vet exulting in the hope of quitting it for end- 
less glory and happiness. 

O ! Sir, tell the unthinking mortals, who 
will not take the pains of inquiring into those 
truths which most concern them, and who 
are led by fashion and the pride of human 
reason, into a contempt for the Sacred Or- 
acles of GOD ; tell them these amazing 
effects of the power of Christiamty ; tell 
them this truth, which experience has taught 
me, that il Though Vice is constantly attend- 
ed by misery, Virtue itself cannot confer 
happiness in this world, except it is animated 
with the hopes of eternal bliss in the world 
to come." 

I am, &c. 

FIDELIA 



A LETTER TO A NEW-MARRIED 
LADY. 



Indeed, my dear young friend, you have 
highly obliged me by such a distinguishing 
mark of friendship and consideration^ that 
of finding time, on the most important day of 
your life, to inform me, with your own hand, 
of Jyour marriage: an event most interesting 
to me, who wish your happiness with the 
sincerest ardour. You tell me you expect 
from me, not a letter of formal congratula- 
tion, but of serious and friendly advice on the 
new situations and duties in which you are 
going to be engaged. You wish I could be 
always with you to watch and direct your 
con d u ct, and seem full of that salutary fear 
and distrust of your own prudence, which is 
the best security for youth and inexperience. 
Whilst you retain this, I may venture to 
answer for you, that you will not macerially 
deviate from the paths of duty and happi- 
ness. rc 

I am glad you are still to remain a few 
weeks under the paternal roof, which has hi- 
therto sheltered you from everv evil, and 



V V 



86 WORKS OF 

where you have seen examples only- of good ; 
but, from this scene of regularity and quiet 
cheerfulness, you will soon go to London, to 
become mistress of yourself and of a family, 
and to plunge at once into the hurry and bus- 
tle of a world to which you are almost a stran- 
ger. Thither will my anxious good wishes 
attend you ; for, on the manner of your first 
setting out depends more than you can possi- 
bly imagine. 

1 know you have not been brought up in 
modish principles, and that you do not at pre- 
sent consider marriage as a title to unbounded 
liberty and perpetual dissipation, instead of a 
solemn engagement to subjection and obedi- 
ence, to family cares ancf serious employ- 
ments. You will probably, indeed, meet with 
people who will endeavour to laugh you out 
of all such regards, and who will find some- 
thing very ludicrous in the idea of authority 
in a husband. But, whatever your opinions 
may be on this head, it is certain that a man 
cf Mr. B's. generosity would be much mor- 
tified and distressed to find himself obliged to 
exert his authority in restraining your plea- 
sures, particularly on his first setting out with 
you on the journey of life. He knows he 
should be universally condemned, as either 
jealous or covetous, should he interfere to 
stem the torrent of dissipation, into which it 
will be the business of most of your acquaint- 
ance to see you fairly plunged ; for well they 
know that when once you are drawn into the 
whirlpool, more than female strength is re- 
quired to get out of it again. Curiosity and 



MRS. CHAPOSE. 87 

vanity will join their temptations. You have 
a new face and new finery to show, new flat- 
tery to hear, and every fine place about town 
to see and to be seen in. 

Alas ! poor Mr. B. ! — What chance have 
you for a moment's attention ! and what a 
sudden end is here of all that dear domestic 
happiness to which you both looked forward 
with rapture a few weeks ago! — you have 
nothing for it but to engage as deeply in the 
same course, and to leave to whining swains 
in the country all ideas of that union of heart, 
that sweet intercourse of tenderness and 
friendship of which " soft souls in love" are 
apt to dream, when they think of living with 
the object of their wishes. 

Mr. B. chose you from affection only : the 
superiority of his fortune, and the large field 
of choice which that fortune, joined with his 
amiable person and character, secured to 
him, precludes the possibility of any other 
motive. I, who know the disinterestedness 
of your nature, and the perfect freedom of 
rejection which your parents have always al- 
lowed you, have not the least doubt that your 
preference of him was the genuine effect of a 
real attachment, without any bias from his 
riches. Youth is naturally disinterested, and 
your heart is hitherto uncorrupted. But, my 
dear, the mode of living, in this too civilized 
part of the world, leaves scarce a single trace 
of nature, and even youth now grows a stran- 
ger to tenderness and truth, and pursues 
wealth (as the means of gratifying vanity) 
with all the rapacity of an old usurer. It is 



88 WORKS OF 

necessary, therefore, that you should prove 
to your husband the sincerity of your attach- 
ment, which he may justly doubt if he sees 
that your happiness arises from the enjoy- 
ment of his fortune rather than of him. By 
a reserved and moderate use of his indulgence, 
by always preferring his company, and that 
of his particular friends, to public diversions 
and assemblies, by studying his taste rather 
than your own, and making the gratification 
of it your highest pleasure, you must convince 
him that your heart is his own ; a truth which 
should always appear in the general tenor of 
your conduct, rather than in professions, or 
in that officious parade of affection which de- 
signing women often substitute in the place 
of every genuine mark of tenderness and con- 
sideration. Dean Swift,* in his coarse way, 
says very sensible things on the subject of 
displaying affection, which, however, may 
safely be left to your own natural delicacy: 
V amour, " de sa nature, aime le secret ,•" and 
a person of sensibility is always averse to 
showing any passion or affection before those 
whose sympathy is not interested in it. An 
amiable authorf of much more delicacy than 
the Dean, goes so far as to advise his daugh- 
ters never to show the extent of their love, 
even to their husbands ; a precept which 
does no honour to his own sex, and which 
would take from ours its sweetest charms, 
simplicity and artless tenderness. A haughty 

* Vide Letter to a new married Lady. 
- Dr. Gregory. Vide Father's Legac) r . 



MRS. CHAPOKE. 35 

and imperious woman, who desired an undue 
power over her husband, would indeed do 
wisely to keep him always in suspense, and 
conceal from him an affection which must 
increase his power and diminish her own ; 
but a gentle and truly feminine nature has no 
such desires, and consequently needs no such 
arts. A modest heart may trust its genuine 
feelings with a husband who has generosity 
and delicacy, and who, like yours, is untaint- 
ed with that base opinion of women, which a 
commerce with the worst of the sex always 
inspires. 

Swift, (and almost every male writer on 
the subject) pronounces that the passion of 
love in men is infallibly destroyed by pos- 
session, and can subsist but a short time after 
marriage. What a dreadful sentence must 
this appear to you at this time ! your heart, 
which feels its own affection increased, 
knows not how to support the idea of such 
a change in the beloved object: but, my dear 
friend, the God of Nature, who provided the 
passion of love as the incitement to marriage, 
has also provided resources for the happiness 
of this his own institution, which kind and un- 
corrupted natures will not fail to find. It is not 
indeed intended that we should pass our lives 
iri the delirium of passion: but whilst this 
subsides, the habit of affection grows strong. 
The tumult and anxiety of desire must of 
course be at an end when the object is se- 
cure ; but a milder and more serene happi- 
ness succeeds, which in good hearts creates 
3 tenderness that is often wanting amidst the 
v v £ 



SO WORKS Of 

fervours of violent passion. Before this palls, 
your business is to build the solid foundation 
of a durable friendship. This will best be 
done whilst the partiality of fondness places 
all your excellencies in the fairest point of 
view, and draws a veil over your defects. 
This season you should take care to prolong, 
as far as is possible, that habit and esteem 
may have time to take deep root : to this end 
you must avoid every thing that can create 
a moment's disgust towards either your per- 
son or your mind. Keep the infirmities of 
both out of the observation of your husband 
more scrupulously than of any other man ; 
and never let your idea in his imagination be 
accompanied with circumstances unpleasant 
or disgraceful. A mistress of a family can- 
not always be adorned with smiles. It will 
sometimes be incumbent on you to find 
faults, and human nature may sometimes 
fail of doing this with proper tamper and 
dignity ; therefore let it never be done in the 

Eresence of your husband. Do not disturb 
im with the detail of your grievances from 
servants or tradespeople, nor with your me- 
thods of family management. But above all, 
let nothing of this kind embitter his meals 
when you happen to be tete-a-tete at table. 
In mixing with the world and its affairs, he 
will often meet with such things as cannot 
fail to hurt a mind like his, and which may 
sometimes affect his temper. But when he. 
returns to his own house, let him there find 
every thing serene and peaceful, and let your 



MRS. CHAPONE. 91 

cheerful complacency restore his good hu- 
mour, and quiet every uneasy passion. 

Endeavour to enter into his pursuits, catch 
his taste, improve by his knowledge ; nor let 
any thing that is interesting to him appear 
a matter of indifference to you. Thus will 
you make yourself delightful to him as a 
companion and friend, in whom he may be 
always sure to find that sympathy which is 
the grand cement of friendship. But if you 
affect to speak of his pursuits as beyond your 
capacity or foreign to your taste, you can be 
no longer pleasing to him in that light, and 
must rely merely on your personal attrac- 
tions, of which, alas, time and familiarity 
must every day impair the value. When 
you are in the country, perhaps you may 
sometimes find hours, and even days for each 
other's society, without any other company : 
in this case, conversation will hardly supply 
sufficient entertainment; and, next to dis- 
pleasing or disgusting him, you should of all 
things dread his crowing dull and weary in 
your company. If you can prevail uj)on him 
to read with you, to practise music with you, 
or to teach you a language or a science, you 
will then find amusement for every hour ; and 
nothing is more endearing than such commu- 
nications. The improvements and accomplish- 
ments you gain from him will be doubly valu- 
able in his esteem ; and certainly you can never 
acquire them so agreeably as from his lips. 
And though you should not naturally be dis- 
posed to the same taste in reading or amusa- 



92 WORKS OF 

ment, this may be acquired by habit, and 
by a hearty desire of conforming to his incli- 
nations and sharing in his pleasures. With 
such a master you will find your understand- 
ing enlarge, and your taste refine to a degree 
far beyond your expectations ; and the sweet 
reward of his praises will inspire you with 
such spirit and diligence as will easily sur- 
mount any natural inaptitude. 

Your behaviour to his particular friends 
and near relations will have the most impor- 
tant effects on your mutual happiness. If 
you do not adopt his sentiments with regard 
to these, your union must be very incom- 
plete, and a thousand disagreeable circum- 
stances will continually arise from it. I am 
told that he is an excellent son to a mother, 
who, with many good qualities, has defects 
of temper which determined him to decline 
her continuing to live with him after his mar- 
riage. In this he is equally kind and pru- 
dent ; for though he could himself meritori- 
ously bear with failings to which he had 
been accustomed from his infancy, in a pa- 
rent who doats upon him, yet this would 
have been too hard a task upon you, who 
have not an equal affection to support your 
duty, and to whom her ways would have 
been new and unusual. But though I thus 
far highly approve his consideration for you, 
yet you must remember how great a part of 
her happiness she is thus deprived of on your 
account, and make her all the amends in your 
power by your own attentions, as well as by 
promoting opportunities of indulging her in 



MRS. CIJAPONE. 95 

the company of her son. It would be a 
grievous charge on your conscience, if 
through your means he should become 
less observant of her, or diminish aught of 
that duty and affection which has hitherto 
so amiably distinguished him. Be careful 
therefore that no dispute may ever happen 
between this lady and yourself, no complaint 
from either of you disturb his peace, to whom 
it would be so painful and unnatural to take 
part against either. Be armed against the 
sallies of her temper, and predetermined 
never to quarrel with her, whatever she may 
say or do. In such a relationship, this con- 
duct would not be meanness but merit ; nor 
would it imply any unworthy compliance or 
false assent ; since silence and good-humour- 
ed steadiness may always preserve sincerity 
in your conversation, and proper freedom in 
your conduct. If she should desire to con- 
trol your actions, or to intermeddle in the af- 
fairs of your family, more than you think is 
reasonable, hear her advice with patience,, 
and answer with respect, but in a manner 
that may let her see you mean to judge of 
your own duties for yourself. " I will consi- 
der of what you are so good to observe to 

me I will endeavour to rectify whatever 

is amiss" or some such general answer, 

will probably for the time put a stop to her 
attempts of this kind. 

Great care must be taken to proportion at 
least your outward regards with equity and 
good breeding between your husband's rela- 
tions and your own. It would be happy if 



94 WORKS OF 

your feelings could be almost the same to 
both : but whether they are so or net, you 
are bound by duty and prudence to cultivate 
as much as possible the good will and friend- 
ship of the family into which you are now 
adopted, without prejudice to that affection 
and gratitude in which 1 am sure you can 
never be wanting towards your own. 

If it is an important duty to avoid all dissen- 
tions and disobligations with those who are 
nearly connected with your husband, of how 
much greater consequence is to avoid all oc- 
casions of resentment between yourselves ? 
Whatever may be said of the quarrels of 
lovers, believe me those of married people 
have always dreadful consequences, especial- 
ly if they are not very short and very slight. 
If they are suffered to produce bitter or con- 
temptuous expressions, or betray an habitual 
dislike in one party of any thing in the person 
or mind of the other, such wounds can scarce- 
ly ever be thoroughly healed : and though 
regard to principle and character lay the 
married couple under a necessity to make up 
the breach as well as they can, yet is their 
affiance in each other's affection so rudely 
shaken in such conflicts, that it can hardly 
ever be perfectly fixed again. The painful 
recollection of what is past, will often intrude 
upon the tenderest hours, and every trifle 
will awaken and renew it. You must even 
noiv be particularly on your guard against 
this source of misery. A new married pair, 
from their very excess of fondness, some- 
times give way to little jealousies and child- 



MRS. CHAPONE. 9i) 

ish quarrels, which at first, perhaps, quickly 
end in the renewal and increase of tenderness, 
but, if often repeated, they loose these agree- 
able effects, and soon produce others of a 
contrary nature. The dispute grows every 
time more serious ; jealousies and distrusts 
take deeper root ; the temper is hurt on both 
sides; habits of sourness, thwarting, and 
mutual misconstruction prevail, and soon 
overpower all that tenderness which origi- 
nally gave them birth. Keep it then con- 
stantly in mind, that the happiness of mar- 
riage depends entirely upon a solid and per- 
manent friendship, to which nothing is more 
opposite than jealousy and distrust. Nor 
are they less at variance with the true inter- 
ests of passion. You can never be a gainer 
by taxing your husband's affection beyond 
its natural strength ; the fear of alarming 
your jealousy, and bringing on a quarrel, 
may force him to feign a greater fondness 
than he feels ; but this very effort and con- 
straint will in fact diminish, and by degrees 
extinguish that fondness. If therefore he 
should appear less tender or attentive than 
you wish, you must either awaken his pas- 
sion by displaying some new grace, some 
winning charm of sweetness and sensibility, 
or else conform (at least in appearance) to 
that rate of tenderness which his example 
prescribes ; for it is your part rather modestly 
to follow as he leads, than make him feel the 
uneasiness of not being able to keep pace 
with you. At least one may pronounce thai 
there is nothing less likely to increase affec 



96 works or 

tion than ill humour and captiousness. The 
truth is, that pride rather than tenderness 
usually occasions the unreasonable expec- 
tations of an exceptious person, and it is re- 
warded as it deserves, with mortifications, 
and the cold dislike of those who suffer from 
it. 

I am unwilling to sadden your present hal- 
cyon days, and the fair prospect of happiness 
before you, by supposing the possibility of 
any proper cause of jealousy — any real un- 
kindness or infidelity on the part of Mr. B. 
As far as the human character can be known 
and relied on, you have reason to think your- 
self secure from this heaviest of calamities ; 
and nothing but irresistible proof, unsought 
for, and obtruded upon your senses, should 
ever shake your confidence and esteem. If 
this were to happen — if my dear tender 
friend should be doomed to the heart-break- 
ing trial of seeing those looks of love chang- 
ed into 

". hard Unkindness' alter'd eye, 

" That mocks the tear it forc'd to flow :" Grat. 

What must [then be your resource ?- 



Not rage and exclamation not sullen- 

ness and pride not an appeal to the 

world, which would laugh at your complaints, 
nor even to your friends, who cannot help 
you, unless by a separation, which would 
publish and complete your misfortune ! The 
comforts and helps of religion, with a firm 
resolution not to be driven out of the path of du- 
ty, can alone support you under such a sorow. 



MJIS. CHAPONE. 97 

The only hope of removing the cause of it 
must be derived from time and future con- 
tingencies, which you will watch for and im- 
prove. Sickness or disappointment may 
give him opportunity for reflection, and for 
observing the merit of that silent patience, 
the dignity of that uniform adherence to your 
duty which must force his esteem, and may 
at length regain his heart. If not, yours will 
of course be cured of the exquisite pain of 
unrequited love, which cannot very long 
subsist in a mind of any dignity or strength. If 
you have children, theyjwill supply the" aching 
void" with a passion not less lively than 
that which you will have subdued ; for their 
sakes life will still be valuable to you, and en- 
tertained with cheerfulness. But let me 
hasten from a subject so unsuitable to your 
present situation, and to your most reasona- 
ble hopes. 

I cannot but flatter myself that ladies are 
mightily improved since the time when Deaa 
Swift (writing on the same occasion that I do 
now) exhorts his fair pupil to make no friend- 
ships with any of her own sex. This is, in 
effect, forbidding her to make any friendships 
at all ; for the world, with very good reason, 
tolerates no male friendsat your age, except- 
ing your nearest relations. The rules of de- 
corum, in such points, are founded on a 
knowledge of human nature, which young 
women cannot have attained, and are there- 
fore apt to despise such rules, as founded on 
base ideas of the nature of friendship, or of 
the hearts that entertain it. But one would 

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have supposed that the Dean had lived Ion 
enough in the world, and thought ill enough 
of mankind to have been convinced of the 
impropriety of a young lady's making her 
strictest intimacies and confidential attach- 
ments with persons of the other sex. But, 
setting aside the danger to her reputation, 
and even to her morals, surely a woman who 
despised her own sex, and would converse 
with none but men, would be not less ridicu- 
lous than a man who should pass his whole time 
among women. Like the monkey in the 
fable, she would stand a chance of being 
rejected and disowned by both species. 
The reasons the Dean gives for this prepos- 
terous advice, if ever founded in truth, are 
certainly so no longer. You may find ad- 
vantages in the conversation of many ladies, 
if not equal to those which men are qualified 
to give, yet equal at least to what you, as a fe- 
male, are capable of receiving. Yet in one 
point the Dean and I agree ; in recommend- 
ing your husband to be your first and dearest 
friend, and his judgment to be consulted in 
the choice of every new one you may here- 
after make. Those you already possess are, 
I believe, secure of some portion of his es- 
teem, and he is too much interested in your 
constancy and fidelity of heart, to wish you 
to be fickle towards them. I shall therefore 
depend on his full consent to my having al- 
ways the pleasure of styling myself 
Your faithful 

And affectionate friend, 

H. CHAPONE. 



WRITTEN DURING A VIOLENT STORM AT MIDNIGHT, 

1749. 
i 

IN gloomy pomp whilst awful midnight reigns, 
And wide o'er earth her mournful mantle 

spreads, 
Whilst deep-voic'd thunders threaten guil- 
ty heads, 
And rushing torrents drown the frighted plains, 
And quick-glanc'd lightnings to my dazzled 

sight 
Betray the double horrors of the night ; 

A solemn stillness creeps upon my soul, 
And all its pow'rs in deep attention die ; 
My heart forgets to beat ; my steadfast eye 
Catches the flying gleam ; the distant roll, 
Advancing gradual, swells upon my ear 
With louder peals, more dreadful as more near. 

Awake, my soul, from thy forgetful trance ! 

The storm calls loud, and Meditation wakes ; 

How at the sound pale Superstition shakes, 
Whilst all her train of frantic Fears advance ! 
Children of darkness, hence, fly far from mc ! 
And dwell with Guilt and Infidelity ! 



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But come, with look compos'd and sober pace> 
Calm Contemplation, come ! andhither lead 
Devotion, that on earth disdains to tread ; 
Her inward flame illumes her glowing face, 
Her upcast eye, and spreading wings, prepare 
Her flight for heav'n, to find her treasure there. 

She sees, enraptur'd, thro' the thickest gloom, 
Celestial beauty beam, and, 'midst the howl 
Of warring winds, sweet music charms 
her soul ; 
She sees, while rifted oaks in flames consume, 
A Father-God, that o'er the storm presides, 
Threatens, to save, and loves, when most he 
chides. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 101 

OCCASIONED BY READING 

SONNETS 

WRITTEN IN THE STYLE AND MANNER OF SPENSER, 

By T. Edwards, Esq. 1749. 



Blest Bard! to whom the Muses, grateful^ 
gave 
That pipe which erst their dearest Spenser 

won, 
As once they found thee, pensive and alone, 
Strewing sweet flow'rs upon his hallow'd 

grave ; 
Then bade thy fancy glow with sacred fire, 
And softest airs thy rural verse inspire. 

Again the elfin Faries and Sylphids come, 
At dusky eve, or in the moonlight pale, 
To the accustom'd mead, or shadowy dale, 
Or where the wild wood sheds a browner 

gloom, 
Where oft, unseen, they listen'd to the lay 
Of their lov'd Colin-clout, till peep of day. 
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Once more they listen, while with mimic hand 
Thou tun'st his rustic reed ; and oft their 

feet, 
Charm'd by thy simple verse and music 
sweet, 
Forget the dance, and all in silence stand ; 
They hush the breeze, and chide the brook 

to peace, 
And. Philomel is mute till Damon cease. 

But most thy strains my raptur'd spirit raise, 
When love of virtue prompts thy tuneful 

tongue ; 
When * Richardson's lov'd name adorns 
thy song, 
What honest heart but echoes back thy praise! 
Sing on, sweet bard ! prolong the darling theme ! 
Hush'd be the breeze ! and mute the bab'ling 
stream ! 

Fain wouldl, shepherd, catch the pleasingnote 5 
And vainly try to learn thy wond'rous skill ; 
So the young linnet, when with varied trill 
The woodlark shakes his wildly- warbling 

throat, 
Delighted flutters quick her trembling wing, 
Tries her weak voice, and twitt'ring, aims to 
sing. 

* Mr. Samuel Richardson, Author of Clarissa, 
and of Sir Charles Grandhon. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 10S 

SONNET TO MISS MULSO, 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

By T. Edwards, Esq. 

Sweet Linnet, who from off the laurel spray 
That hangs o'er Spenser's ever sacred tomb, 
Pour'st out such notes as strike the Wood- 
lark dumb, 

And vie with Philomel's enchanting lay ; 

How shall my verse thy melody repay ? 
If my weak voice could reach the age to 

come, 
Like Colin Clout's, thy name should ever 
bloom 
Through future times, unconscious of decay : 

But my frail aid thy merits not require ; 

Thee Polyhymnia, in the roseate bow'rs 

Of high Parnassus, 'midst the vocal throng 
Shall glad receive, and to her tuneful sire 

Present, where crown'd with amaranthine 
flow'rs, 

The raptur'd choir shall listen to thy song. 



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^TO HEALTH. 



O health ! thou friend of Nature ! God- 
dess blythe, 
That oft upon the Uplands bleak art seen, 
Printing with nimble step the dewy green. 
To help the early mower wet his scythe, 
Or with the jocund swain partake the toil 
To press the plough, and break the stubborn 
soil : 

Ah, wherefore dost thou fly me, nymph divine? 

With Youth and Innocence thou lov'st to 

dwell, 
And gentle Peace, soft whisp'ring, " all is 
well !" 
Youth, Innocence, and gentle Peace are mine ; 
Nor sacred Friendship to my heart denies 
Her richest treasures, and her sweetest joys. 
No boist'rous passion shook my troubled 
frame, 
To fright thee from my breast, nor pining 

Care, 
Nor rankling Envy ever Fester'd there, 
Nor did Intemp'rance e'er my blood inflame 



MRS. CHAPONE. 105 

And Grief, tho' long an inmate of my mind, 
To Hope and Cheerfulness her place resign'd. 

O Health, thy Napier calls, well-skill'd to 
save, 
Foe of thy foes, and friend of human race, 
Whose potent hand the tyrant Pain can 
chase, 
And pale Disease, that points an op'ning grave ; 
Nor thou, ungrateful, can'st to him deny, 
Thy glad return, fresh source of springing joy ! 

Without thee, Virtue's self forgets to smile, 
And sufif 'ring saints with heav'n in view 

complain ; 
Philosophy, and Stoic pride how vain, 
To stifle anguish, or the sense beguile ! 
Yet thou art often to the good unkind, 
Like Fortune partial, and to merit blind. 

Hast thou not left a Richardson unblest ? 

He wo os thee still in vain, relentless maid ! 

Tho' skill'd in sweetest accents to persuade, 
And wake soft Pity in a savage breast. 
Him Virtue loves, and brightest Fame is his, 
Smile thou too, Goddess, and complete his 
bli^s. 



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But if regardless thou can'st hear him sigh. 
Shall I not silence my presumptuous plea ! 
To him obdurate, wilt thou yield to me ? 

Ah no ! to thee, mild Patience, I'll apply, 

Affliction's nurse ! hear thou my humbler 
pray'r, 

And teach, the ills I may not shun, to bear ! 



MRS. CHAPOtfE, 107 



TO A ROBIN REDBREAST. 

Dear social bird ! that giv'st with fearless love 
Thy tender form to man's protecting care, 
Pleas'd, when rude tempests vex the ruffled 
air, 

For the warm roof to leave the naked grove ; 

Kindest and last of Summer's tuneful train ! 

Ah ! do not yet give o'er thy plaintive lay ; 

But charm soft Zephyr to a longer stay. 
And oft renew thy sweetly parting strain. 

So when rough Winter frowns with brow se- 
vere, 
And chilling blasts shall strip the sheltering 

trees, 
When meagre Want thy shiv'ring frame 
shall seize, 
And Death, with dart uplifted, hover near, 
My grateful hand the lib'ral crumbs shall give. 
My bosom warm thee, and my kiss revive. 



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TO STELLA. 

No more, my Stella, to the sighing shades t 
Of blasted hope and luckless love complain ; 

But join the sports of Dian's careless maids, 
And laughing Liberty's triumphant train. 

And see, with these is holy Friendship found, 
With chrystal bosom open to the sight; 

Her gentle hand shall close the recent wound, 
And fill the vacant heart with calm delight. 

Nor Prudence slow, that ever comes too late, 

Nor stern-brow'd Duty, check her gen'rous 

flame ; 

On all her footsteps Peace and Honour wait, 

And Slander's ready tongue reveres her 

name. 

Say, Stella, what is Love, whose tyrant pow'r 
Robs Virtue of content, and Youth of joy ? 

What nymph or goddess, in a fatal hour, 
Gave to the world this mischief-making 
boy? 



MRS. CHAPONE. 109 

By lying bards in forms so various shown, 
Deck'd with false charms or arm'd with 
terrors vain, 

Who shall his real properties make known, 
Declare his nature, and his birth explain. 

Some say of Idleness and Pleasure bred, 
The smiling babe on beds of roses lay, 

There, with sweet honey-dews by Fancy fed, 
His blooming beauties open'd to the day. 

His wanton head with fading chaplets bound, 
Dancing, he leads his silly vot'ries on 

To precipices deep o'er faithless ground, 
Then laughing flies, nor hears their fruitless 
moan. 

Some say from Etna's burning entrails torn, 
More fierce than tigers on the Lybian plain. 

Begot in tempests, and in thunders born, 
Love wildly rages like the foaming main. 

With darts and flames some arm his feeble 
hands, 
His infant brow with regal honours crown 
Whilst vanquished Reason, bound with silken 

bands, 
Meanly submissive, falls before his t hrone 

a a 



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Each fabling poet sure alike mistakes 
The gentle power that reigns o'er tender 
hearts ! 
Softlovenotempesthurls,northunder shakes, 
Nor lifts the flaming torch, nor poison'd 
darts. 

Heav'n born, the brightest seraph of the sky, 
For Eden's bow'r he left his blissful seat, 
When Adam's blameless suit was heard on 
high, 
A beauteous Eve first cheer'd his lone re- 
treat. 

At Love's approach all earth rejoic'd, each 
hill, 
Each grove that learnt it from the whisp'r- 
ing gale ; 
Joyous the birds their liveliest chorus fill, 
And richer fragrance breathes in ev'ry vale. 

Well pleas'd in Paradise awhile he roves, 
With innocence and Friendship, hand in 
hand; 

Till Sin found entrance in the with 'ring groves, 
And frighted innocence forsook the land. 



•IRS.'CHAPONE. Ill 

But Love, still faithful to the guilty pair, 

With them was driv'n amidst a world of 
woes, 
Where oft he mourns his lost companion dear, 
And trembling flies before his rigid foes. 

Honour, in burnish'd steel completely clad, 
And hoary Wisdom, oft against him arm ; 

Suspicion pale, and Disappointment sad, 
Vain Hopes and frantic Fears his heart 
alarm. 

Fly then, dear Stella, fly th' unequal strife, 
Since Fate forbids that Peace should dwell 
with Love ! 
Friendship's calm joys shall glad thy future 
life, 
And Virtue lead to endless bliss abovet 



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TO ASPASIA, 

IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

BY* MISS h*******. 

Wisdom, Aspasia, by thy gentle Muse, 
Warns me to shun the dang'rous paths of 
Love, 

And rather those of sober Friendship choose, 
With cheerful Liberty, in Dian's grove. 

Yet, led by Fancy through deceitful ground, 

Oft have I Friendship sought, but sought 

in vain ; 

Unfaithful friends with myrtle wreaths I 

crown'd, 

Unpleasing subjects of my plaintive strain. 

In youthful innocence, a school-day friend 
First gain'd my sister-vows ; unhappy 
maid ! 

How did I wipe thy tears, thy griefs attend, 
And how was all my tenderness repaid ! 

* Now Mrs. D*******, to whose kindness Mrs. 
Chapone is indebted for the liberty of inserting 
here this elegant answer to the Ode to Stella 



MRS. CHAPONE. 115 

.No sooner Grandeur, Love, and Fortune 
smil'd, 

Than base Ingratitude thy heart betrays, 
That friend forgot, who all thy woes beguil'd, 

Lost in the sunshine of thy prosp'rous daj s. 

Save me, kind Heav'n, from smiling Fortune's 
power ! 

And may my wishes never meet success, 
If e'er I can forget, one single hour, 

The friend who gave me comfort in distress ! 

Yet Friendship's influence I again implor'd, 
To heal the wounds by Disappointment 
made ; 

Friendship my soul to balmy Peace restor'd, 
And sent a gentle virgin to my aid. 

Soft, modest, pensive, melancholy Fair, 
She seem'd to Love and pining Grief a 
prey; 

I saw her fading cheek, and fear'd Despair 
Fed on her heart and stole her life away.. 

But ah ! how chang'd my friend ! how vain 

my fears ! 
Not Death, but Hymen, stole her from my 

heart ; 
Another love dispell'd her sighs and tears, 

And fame was left the secret to impart. 

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Not twice the changing moon her course had 
run 
Since first the pleasing youth was seen and 
lov'd, 
The fair in secret haste he woo'd and won, 
No friend consulted, for no friend approv'd. 

Suspense not long my anxious bosom pain'd, 
My friend arriv'd — I clasp'd her to my 
breast, 

I wept, I smil'd, alternate passions reign'd, 
Till she the sad unwelcome tale confess'd. 

Lost to her brother, country, and to me, 
A stranger wafts her to a foreign shore, 

She travels mountains, and defies the sea, 
Nor thinks of Albion or of Stella more. 

Sure Nature in her weakest, softest mould, 
Form'd my unhappy heart, False Friend- 
ship's prey ! 
Another story yet remains untold, 
Which fond Compassion bids me not dis- 
play : 

The lovely sister of a faithless friend 
Weeping entreats me spare the recent tale ; 

Her sighs 1 hear, her wiskes I attend, 
And o'er her sister's failings draw the veil. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 115 

Tliis my success in search of Friendship's 
grove, 
Where Liberty and Peace 1 hop'd to find, 
And soften'd thus with Grief, deceitful Love, 
In Friendship's borrow'd garb, attack'd my 
mind. 

No passion raging like the roaring main, 
But calm and gentle as a summer sea, 

Meek Modesty and Virtue in his train, 
What Friendship ought, true Love appear'd 
to be. 

But soon was chang'd, alas! the pleasing 
scene, 
Soon threat'ning storms my timid heart 
alarm'd ; 
And love no more appear'd with brow serene, 
But cloth'd in terrors, and with dangers 
, arm'd. 

From these enchanted bowers my steps I 
turn, 
And seek from Prudence safety and re- 
pose ; 
Her rigid lessons I resolve to learn, 
And gain that bliss which self-approof be- 
stows. 



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Thus, dear Aspasia, my unhappy fate, 
My heart's first darling schemes all blasted, 
see; 
Yet now my bosom glows, with hope elate, 
Fair Friendship's blessings still to find with 
thee. 

By thee conducted to the realms of Peace, 
No more in plaintive strains the Muse shall 
sing, 
Henceforth with hymns of praise, and grate- 
ful bliss, 
The groves shall echo, and the valleys ring;. 



MRS. CHAPOISE. 117 

*TO PEACE. 

Written during the late Rebellion, 1745. 

Return, sweet Peace ! Ah whither art thou 
flown ? 
How art thou frighted from this wretched 
land! 
Which once it pleas'd thee to protect and own, 
How great ! how blest ! beneath thy mild 
command. 

Fair child of holy Love ! companion dear 
Of meek Content and smiling Innocence J 

Oh ! if thy gentle eyes such sight can bear, 
Of Briton's sons behold the dire offence ! 

Behold sad Caledonia's horrid plain, 

What hellish fury fires the shouting bands ! 
Ah see ! with brother's blood their swords 
they stain ; 
Ye weeping angels, hold their murd'rous 
hands ! 

* This was written at a very early age, and was 
the author's first poetical attempt. 



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Thy banks, fair Tweed ! were wont to echo 
sweet 

The lover's wailing, and the lover's song ; 
Or, to the jocund pipe, the sounding feet 

Of blithest lads, thy bonny berks among : 

Now bright-arm'd hosts thy pleasant banks 
invade, 
And fright thy helpless villages around ; 
Thy shepherds leave their flocks, and fly dis- 
may*d ; 
With war's harsh din the distant rocks re- 
sound. 

Th' industrious merchant's everanxiousmind, 
Opprest with care, his treasure lost de- 
plores ; 
Yet curses he nor treach'rous seas, nor wind, 
Nor pointed rocks unseen, nor craggy 
shores : 
> 
But thee he curses, oh thou most accurst ! 

Offspring of mad Ambition ! cruel War ! 
Go reign in hell, be there supremely worst, 
The blackest, most malignant demon far. 

Whether remote in twilight shades you sleep, 
Mild Peace ! or choose in cottage low to 
dwell ; 

Or won by pray'r, and nurs'd in silence deep, 
Hide your fair form within the hermits cell ; 



MRS. CHAPONE. 119 

Oh let Britannia's griefs thy pity move ; 

Return ! and with thee bring a beauteous 
train ; 
Plenty and Order, Piety, and Love, 

And art, and Science, wait thy blissful reign. 

Ah turn ! let thy majestic looks serene 
Check the wild rage of thy presumptuous 
foes: 
Thy beamy smile shall calm the troubled 
scene, 
Cheer my sad heart, and heal my country's 
woes. 



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TO SOLITUDE. 



Thou gentle nurse of pleasing wo! 

To thee, from crowds, and noise, and show. 

With eager haste I fly. 
Thrice welcome, friendly Solitude ! 
O let no busy food intrude, 

Nor list'ning ear be nigh. 

Soft, silent, melancholy maid ! 
With thee to yon sequester'd shade 

My pensive steps I bend ; 
Still, at the mild approach of night, 
When Cynthia lends her sober light, 

Do thou my walk attend ! 

To thee alone my conscious heart 
Its tender sorrow dares impart, 

And ease my lab'ring breast ; 
To thee I trust the rising sigh, 
And bid the tear that swells mine eye 

No longer be supprest. 

With thee among the haunted groves 
The lovely sorc'ress Fancy roves, 



MRS CHAPOM. . 151 

O let me find her here ! 
For she can time and space control, 
And swift transport my fleeting sou! 

To all it holds most dear ! 

Ah no ! — ye vain delusions hence ! 
No more the hallow'd influence 

Of Solitude pervert ! 
Shall Fancy cheat the precious hour., 
Sacred to Wisdom's awful pow'r 

And calm Reflections part ? 

O Wisdom ! from the sea-beat shore 
Where, list'ning to the solemn roar, 

Thy lov'd *Eliza strays, 
Vouchsafe to visit my retreat, 
And teach my erring, trembling feet 

Thy heav'n-protected ways ! 

Oh guide me to the humble cell 
Where Resignation loves to dwell 

Contentment's bow'r in view. 
Nor pining Grief with Absence drear, 
Nor sick Suspense, nor anxious Fear, 

Shall there my step pursue. 

* Mrs. Elizabeth Carter, a lady well known to 
the literary world, author of a beautiful Ode t» 
Wisdom, 

b b 



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There let my soul to Him aspire 
Whom none e'er sought with vain desire, 

Nor lov'd in sad despair ! 
There, to his gracious will divine 
My dearest, fondest hope resign, 

And all my tend'rest care ! 

Then Peace shall heal this wounded breast. 
That pants to see another blest, 

From selfish passion pure ; 
Peace, which when human wishes rise 
Intense, for aught beneath the skies. 

Can never be secure. 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 123 

TO WINTER. 

Hail Winter ! venerable sage ! 

"Whose provident and sparing age 
In lean a'nd naked poverty appears, 

Whilst all thy treasure thou dost hide, 

Lock'd in some mountain's hollow side, 
With future blessings to enrich thy heirs. 

First, youthful Spring, fantastic maid, 
In green embroidered robe array'd, 

Thy store with all her gay attire supplies : 
Enrich'd by thee, she flings her sweets 
With lavish hand on all she meets, 

" Her bells and ilow'rets of a thousand dyes." 

The fertile earth, with softening rain 
By thee prepar'd to ev'ry grain 

A safe retreat within her bosom yields : 
Thy snowy mantle covers o'er, 
With kindly warmth, the golden store 

That Summer pours on Ceres' waving fields. 

Pomona's trees their nourish'd root, 
Their folded bud, and infant shoot, 

Owe to thy cautious age and patient care : 
With riches gather'd from thy hoard 
Pale Autumn's plenteous horn is stored, 

That may with Summer's boasted sheaves 
compare. 



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What tho' thy rigid hand refuse 

One wreath to crown my vent'rous muse, 

One flow'r to grace my unadorn'd lays, 
Yet love shall tune my grateful voice, 
Nor shall my thankless heart rejoice 

In silent bliss, unmindful of thy praise. 

Rescued by thee from gloomy fears, 
From restless wishes, anxious cares, 

And all the sorrows that on Absence wait, 
By thee restor'dto ev'ryjoy 
That tender Friendship can supply, 

To all my fondest pray'rs had ask'd of Fate, 

Shall not my reed be tuned for thee, 
Thou friend of sweet Society ? 

Patron of rational eorone delights ! 

Welcome thy keen enliv'ning frost ! 
Thy doubtful days in twilight lost ! 
Welcome thy long-protracted social nights ! 

Tho' Fancy flies thy sullen reign, 
And ev'ry Muse forsakes the plain, 

Nor haunts the leafless grove, nor ice-bound 
stream, 
Philosophy and Reason view 
Thy hoary head with rev'rence due, 

And bid thy horrors raise their solemn theme. 



MRS. CHAP0NE. 1£5 

"Well pleas'd thy hollow voice they hear 
Among the naked branches drear, 

Or through the vaulted cavern bellowing loud; 
Or listen studious to the sound 
Of rushing waters, pouring round, 

From the black bosom of the impending cloud. 

Thee glad Devotion's heav'n-taught lays 
Shall welcome ! She, with constant praise, 

Meets each appointment of great Nature's 
King. 
Thy dear return with blessings fraught, 
Shall ever wake my grateful thought, 

And annual off'rings to thy fane I'll bring. 

B b 2 



126 WORKS OF 

L'ESTATE METASTASIO. 

Or che niega i doni suoi 
La stagion de' fiori arnica, 
Cinta il crin di bionda spica 

Volge a noi 
L'E state il pie. 

E gia sotto al raggio ardente 
Cosl bollono 1' arene 

Che alia barbara Cirene 
Piu cocente 
II sol non e 

Piu non hanno i primi albori 

Le lor gelide rugiade ; 

Piu dal ciel pioggia non cade, 
Che ristori 

E l'erba, e'l fior : 
Alimento il fonte, il rio 

Al terren piu non comparte, 

Che si fende in ogni parte 
Per desio 

Di nuovo umor. 

Polveroso al sole in faccia 
Si scolora il verde faggio, 
Che di frondi al nuovo maggio 

iLe sue braccia 
Rivesti. 



MRS. CHAPOJVE. 12? 

SUMMER. FROM METASTASIO. 

Farewell, mild Spring ! farewell, each ear- 
ly flow'r 

On the soft bank or verdant meadow born ! 
Summer advances to assert her pow'r, 

Her yellow tresses crown'd with ears of corn. 

The streams decrease beneath the solar ray, 

Shrink from its rage, and leave the burning 

sand ; 

Not more oppressive beams, the raging day 

Points on the parch'd Cirene's barb'rous 

land. 

No more the morning sheds her frosty dews, 
While no rude winds her gentle hours dis- 
turb; 

Nor fruitful rain from equal heav'n renews 
Each beauteous flow'ret and salubrious herb. 

No more the fountain, or the wand'ring stream, 
Pours its abundance o'er th' irriguous plain ; 

Earth gapes beneath the sun's relentless beam, 
And vainly asks the cool refreshing rain. 

Discolour'd, dry, the tall majestic beech, 
ThatMAY had freshly clothed in vivid green, 
And bade his broad arms, wide projected, 
reach 
The pride, the glory of the sylvan scene, 



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Ed ingrato al suol natio 

Fuor del tronco ombra non atende? 

Ne dal sol l'acque disende 
Di quel rio 

Che lo nutri. 

Molle il volto, il sen bagnato, 

Dorme steso in strana guisa 

Su la messe gia recisa 
L'affannato 

Mietitor : 
E con man pietosa, e pronte 

Va tergendogli la bella 

Amorosa villanella 
Delia fronte 

11 suo sudor. 

La su l'arido terreno 

Scemo il Can d'ogni vigore 
Langue accanto al suo signore 

E ne meno 
Osa latrar ; 

Ma tramanda al seno oppress© 
Per le fauci inaridite 
Nuove sempre aure gradite 

Con lo spesso . 
Respirar. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 1£9 

Withers, ungrateful to its native ground, 
And scarce beyond the trunk its shadows 
spread ; 
No sheltering leaves ^protect with coolness 
round 
The friendly rill that long its branches fed. 

His face and bosom bathed in honest sweat, 
The weary reaper throws him careless down , 

Stretch'd on the swarth, and, thro' the mid- 
day heat, 
Sleeps on the harvest that his labours crown: 

Whilst with a ready and a tender hand, 
The village-maid, to love and Corin true, 

latent and silent takes her careful stand, 
And from his forehead wipes the trickling 
dew. 

On the scorch'd ground, near his lov'd mas- 
ter, lies 

The panting Dog, whose clammy jaws now 
fail 

To give the watchful bark, and oft he tries, 
With quick short breath, to catch the grate- 
ful gale. 



ISO WORKS OF 

Quel Tore], ch' innamorava 
Del suo ardir ninfe, e pastori 
Se ne' tronchi degli allori 

S'avezzava 
A ben serir, 

Del ruscello or su le sponde 
Lento giace, e mugge, e guata 
La giovenca innamorata, 

Che risponde 
Al suo muggir. 

Per timor del caldo raggio 
L'augellin non batte l'ale, 
Alle stridule cicale 

Cede il faggio 
L'ufignuol. 

Mostran gia spoglie novelle 
Le macchiate antiche Serpi, 
Che ravvolte a' nudi sterpi 

Si fan belle 
In faccia al fol. 

Al calor del lungo giorno 
Senton la ne' salsi umori 
Anche i muti abitatori, 

Che il soggiorno 
Intiepidi : 



MRS. CHAPONE. 1S1 

The youthful Bull,, whom oft the ructic swain 

With wondersaw exert his dauntless might? 

No more, with butting forehead, rules the 

plain, 

Nor wounds the bending trees in mimic 

fight. 

Laid on the margin of the scanty rill, 
Lowing, he watches his lov'd Heifer near ; 

Whose faint responsive moans no longer fil| 
Heav'n's echoing vault, but feebly strike 
the ear. 

No more with nimble wing the feather'd race 
In the fierce eye of day advent'rous tow'r ; 
The Nightingale resigns her ruin'd sprays, 
And noisy Grasshoppers usurp the bow'r. 

But the sleek Serpents, by the genial fires 
Reviv'd desert their faded sloughs,'and bold, 

Round the bare branch weaving their agile 
spires, 
Blaze to the sun in renovated gold. 

The mute inhabitants that coolly play, 
And in their native briny waters lave, 

Feel the long rigours of the Summer's day, 
And dread the changes of the tepid wave. 



1S£ WORKS OF 

E aV loro antri muscosi 
Piu non van scorrendo il mare : 
Ma fra'sassi, e l'alghe amare 

Stanno ascosi 
A' rai del d>. 

Pur l'Estate tormentosa, 
S'io rimiro, amataFille, 
Le tue placide pupille, 

Si penosa 
A me non e : 

Mi conduca il cieco Dio 
Fra' Numidi, o al Mar gelato, 
Io sar5 sempre beato, 

Idol mio, 
Vicino a te. 

Benche adusta abbia la fronte 
Conle curve oppostespalle, 
Una ombrosa opaca valle 

Celail monte 
Al caldo sol : 

La dall' alto in giu cadendo 
Serpe un rio limpido, e vago, 
Che raccolto in piceiol lago 

Va nutrendo 
H verde suol. 



MRS. CHAPO.VE. 1S5 

Xear the hot surface they forbear to glide, 
In mossy caves or coral grottos laid 

Beneath the dark projecting rocks they hide> 
Or where the bitter sea-weed lends its shade. 

Yet will not 1 deplore the painful heat, 
Tho' Summer drives her burning car so 
nigh, 

When my fond looks my lovely Phillis greet? 
And the soft languish of her modest eye. 

Lead me, blind God, if such thy wild decree, 
To Afric's sands with ceaseless heats opprest, 
Or where cold Zembla views her frozen sea, 
Sure, if with thee, my fairest, to be blest. 

And see, my love, beneath that mountain's 
height, 

That bears its shoulder to the burning skies, 
Cool, and protected from oppressive light, 

Form'd for retreat, the shady valley lies. 

There down the rocks the winding riv'lets 
flow, 
Thro' shaggy brakes their limpid streams 
are seen, 
Which, gather'd in the crystal lake below, 
Nourish the fertile vale's perennial green. 
c c 



154 WORKS OP 

La del sol dubbia e la luce, 
Come suol notturna luna, 
Ne pastor greggia importuna 

Vi conduce 
A pascolar : 

E se v'entra il sol furtivo, 
Vedi l'ombra delle piante 
Al variar d'aura incostante 

Dentro il rivo 
Tremolar. 

La, mia vita, uniti andiamo, 
La cantando il di s'inganni : 
Per timor di nuovi affanni 

Non lasciamo 
Di gioir. 

Che raddoppia i suoi tormenti, 
Chi con occhio mal sicuro 
Fra la nebbia del futuro 

Va gli eventi 
A prevenir. 

I\Ie non sdegni il biondo Dio, 
Me con Fille unisca Amore ; 
E poi sfoghi il suo rigore 

Fato rio, 
Nemico ciel. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 135 

There the sun's doubtful light, attemper'd, 
shows 

Like the mild lustre of the nightly moon j 
Ho shepherd the sequester'd shelter knows, 

Nor thither leads th' intruding flock at noon. 

Should through the gloom the stealthy sun 
prevail, 
See from his ray the scene new beauties 
take; 
The margin plants, mov'd by the varying gale, 
Reflected wave along the trembling lake. 

In that sweet spot together let us live ; 

The tedious day shall hasten while we sing J 
Content and joy the present hour shall give, 

And hide the ills futurity may bring : 

For woes on woes that anxious wretch pursue. 

And on his soul fantastic terrors crowd, 
Who dares with eye distrustful stretch his 
view 
Where Fate has spread her providential 
cloud. 

Let but the fair-hair'd God confirm my state, 
In silken bands to my lov'd Phillis led, 

Let adverse seasons then and cruel Fate 
Exhaust their rigours on my patient head. 



136 WORKS OP 

Che il desio non mi tormenta 
O di fasto, o di ricchezza ; 
Ne d'incomoda vecchiezza 

Mi spaventa 
II pigro gel. 

Curvo il tergo, e bianco il mento 
Tocchero le corde usate, 
E alle corde mal temprate 

Roco accento 
Accoppier6 : 

E a que' rai non phi vivaci 
Rivolgendomi talora, 
Su la man, che m'innamora, 

Freddi baci 
Imprimer5. 



Giusti Dei, che riposate 
Placidissimi sull'etra, 
La mia Fille, e la mia cetra 

Ueh serbate 
Per pieta ! 

Fili poi la Parca avara 
I miei dl mill' anni, e mille, 
La mia cetra, e la mia Fill* 

Sempre cara 
A me sari. 



MRS. CHAPONE. 137 

For me nor wealth, nor glitt'ring pomp allure, 
Their specious charms no more my heart 
engage, 

Nor shall it shrink, affrighted, to endure 
The lazy frost of chill enervate age : 

For then, with bending back, and snowy beard, 
And trembling hand, I'll touch th' accus- 
tom'd string, 

And still, with partial ear by Phillis heard, 
To love her, and in hoarser accents sing ; 

Still on those faded eyes my sight I'll rest. 
No longer kind'ling at her lover's songs ; 

And print, while pressing to my faithful breast, 
Cold kisses on the hand I lov'd so long. 

Ye who at ease on ether soft recline, 
Indulgent hear this only fond desire ! 

Oh hear, for gentle pity, Pow'rs divine ! 
And grant me still my Phillis and my lyre ! 

Then, would penurious Fate the pray'r regard, 
And spin my days beyond the thousandth 
year, 
Still to the bosom of their grateful bard 
My lyre and Phillis should be ever dear. 
cc2 



186 WORKS or 



SONNETTO. 



Qual agnellina dal sentiero uscita, 
E'l pastor e l'ovil posto in oblio, 
Molt' anni err6, lungi da te, mio dio, 

Da te, vero Pastor, l'alma fuggita.* 

Se miro vago rio, valle fiorita, 
Cola rivolse ilgiovenil desio, 
Ma sempre amari i fior, torbido il rio 

Ella trov5, dal proprio error tradita. 

Ond'hor, cangiato alfin 1'incauto stile, 
Gia del suo lungo vanaggiar si pente, 
E a te ritorna ed al tuo fido ovile : 
Deh l'accogli, O Signor ! se'l ciel lucente 
Un di cangiasti con capanna umile 
Per lei sottrar d'infernal lupo al dente. 



MRS. CHAPONE, 15§ 



TRANSLATION OF THE FOREGO- 
ING SONNET. 

How like a wanton lamb, that careless play'd, 
The shepherd and the fold forgotten quite, 
My vagrant soul, in search of vain delight, 

Many long years from her true Shepherd 
stray'd ! 

If winding stream or flow'ry vale she spied, 
Thither her youthful wishes eager led ; 
But bitter were the flow'rs on which she fed, 

The turbid stream no cooling draught supplied. 

Thus oft beguil'd, at length her fruitless range, 
Her heedless wand'ring steps, she deeply 

mourns, 
And back to thee and to thy fold returns. 
Receive her, dearest Lord ! who once didst 

change 
Heav'n's brightest mansion for a roof of 

straw, 
To snatch her from the wolf's devouring 

jaw. 



14* works or 

AN IRREGULAR ODE. 

TO MRS. ELIZA CARTER. 

Who had recommended to me the Stoic Philoso- 
phy, as productive of Fortitude ; and who was 
about to publish a Translation of Epictetus. 
I. 
Come, Epictetus, arm my breast 
With thy impenetrable steel. 
No more the wounds of grief to feel, 
Nor mourn, by others' woes deprest. 
O teach my trembling heart 
To scorn Affliction's dart ! 
Teach me to mock the Tyrant Pain ! 
For see, around me stand 
A dreadful murd'rous band ! 
I fly their cruel pow'r in vain ! 
Here lurks Distemper's horrid train, 

And thereihe Passions lift their flaming 
brands ; 
These with fell rage my helpless body tear, 

While those, with daring hands, 
Against th' immortal soul their impious wea- 
pons rear. 

II. 
Where'er I turn fresh evils meet my eyes ; 
Sin, Sorrow, and Disgrace 
Pursue the human race ! 
There, on the bed of sickness, Virtue lies ! 
See Friendship bleeding by the sword 
Of base Ingratitude ! 



MRS. CHAPONE. Hi 

See baleful Jealousy intrude, 
And poison all the bliss that Love had stor'd. 
Oh seal ray ears against the piteous cry 
Of Innocence distrest ! 
Nor let me shrink when Fancy's eye 
Beholds the guilty wretch's breast 
Beneath the tort'ring pincers heave ! 
Nor for the num'rous wants of Mis'ry 

grieve, [relieve ! 

Which all-disposing Heav'n denies me to 
III. 
No longer let my fleeting joys depend 
On social or domestic ties ! 
Superior let my spirit rise, 
Not in the gentle counsels of a friend, 
Nor in the smiles of love expect delight : 
But teach me in myself to find 
Whate'er can please or fill my mind. 
Let inward beauty charm the mental sight; 
Let godlike reason, beaming bright, 
Chase far away each gloomy shade, 
Till Virtue's heavenly form display'd 
Alone shall captivate my soul, 
And her divinest love possess me whole ! 
IV. 
But ah ! what means this impious pride, 

Which heav'nly hosts deride ? 
Within myself does Virtue dwell ? 
Is all serene and beauteous there ? 
What mean these chilling damps of fear ? 



14£ WORKS OF 

Tell me, Philosophy ! thou boaster ! tell : 
This godlike all sufficient mind, 
Which, in its own perfection blest, 
Defies the woes or malice of mankind .- 
To shake its self-possessing rest, 
Is it not foul, weak, ignorant, and blind ? 
Oh man! from conscious Virtue's praise 
Fall'n, fall'n ! — what refuge can'st thou 
What pitying hand again will raise [find • 
From native earth thy groveling frame ? 
Ah, who will cleanse thy heart from spot of 
V. [sinful blame 

But see ! what sudden glories from the sky 
To my benighted soul appear, 
And all the gloomy prospect cheer ! 
What awful form approaches nigh ? 
Awful, yet mild, as is the southern breeze 
That whispers through the rustling 
And gently bids the forest nod. [trees, 
Hark ! thunder breaks the air, and angels 
speak ! 
" Behold the Saviour of the world ! behold 
the Lamb of God !" 
Ye sons of Pride, behold his aspect meek i 
The tear of pity on his cheek ! 
See in his train appear 
Humility, and Patience sweet ; 
Repentance, prostrate at his sacred feet, 
Bedews with tears, and wipes them with hex* 
flowing hair ! 



HltS. CHAPONE. 143 

VI. 

"What scenes now meet my wond'ring 

What hallow'd grave, [eyes ! 

By mourning maids attended round, 
Attracts the Saviour's steps ? what heart-felt 

wound 
His spotless bosom heaves with tender sighs? 
Why weeps the son belov'd, omnipotent to 
But lo ! he waves his awful hand ; [save ? 
The sleeping clay obeys his dread command. 
O " Lazaru I come forth /" — come forth, and 
see 
The dear effects of wond'rous love ! 
He, at whose word the seas and rocks re- 
move, 
Thy Friend, thy Lord, thy Maker, weeps for 
thee! 

VII. 
Thy walls, Jerusalem, have seen thy King, 
In meekness clad, lament thy hapless fate ! 
Unquench'd his love, tho' paid with ruth- 
less hate ! 
O lost, relentless Sion ! didst thou know 
Who thus vouchsafes thy courts to tread, 
What loud Hosannas wouldst thou sing ! 
How eager crown his honour'd head ! 
Nor see unmov'd his kind paternal wo, 
Nor force his tears, his precious blood, for 
thee to flow ! 



144 WORKS OP MRS. CHAPONE. 

VIII. 

No more'repine, my coward soul, 

The sorrows of mankind to share, 
Which he who could the world control 
Did not disdain to bear! 
Check not the flow of sweet fraternal love, 

By Heav'ns high King in bounty giv'n, 
Thy stubborn heart to soften and impr. 
Thy earth-clad spirit to refine, 
And gradual raise to love divine, 
And wing its soaring flight to Heav'n ! 

IX. 
Nor thou, Eliza, who from early youth, 

By genius led, by Virtue train'd, 
Hast sought the fountain of eternal truth, 
And each fair spring of knowledge drain'd, 
Nor thou, with fond chimeras vain, 
With Stoic pride and fancied scorn 
Of human feelings, human pain, 

My feeble soul sustain ! 
Far nobler precepts should thy page adorn . 
O, rather guide me to the sacred source 
Of real wisdom, real force, 
Thy life's unerring rule ! 
To thee fair Truth her radi ant form unshrouds, 
Tho', wrapp'd in thick impenetrable clouds, 
She mock'dthe labours of the Grecian school. 

THE END. 

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